UBRARY 

'UnW-frity  of  CaWorm^ 

IRVINE^ 


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DUMB  FOXGLOVE 

and 

Other  Storks 


BY 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON 

AUTHOR   OF    "SEVEN   DRe'amERS  " 

"fishin'  jimmy"  etc. 


NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1898 


?5 


By  ANNIE  TRUMBULL  SLOSSON. 

SEVEN  DREAMERS.    A  Collection  of  Seven  Sto- 
ries.   Post  8vo,  Clotli,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

The  sweetness,  the  spiciness,  the  aromatic  taste  of  the 
forest  has  crept  into  these  tales. — Fhihidelphia  Ledger. 

THE     HERESY    OF    MEHETABEL    CLARK. 
Small  16mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  75  cents. 

A  charming  little  volume,  quite  unique  in  its  concep- 
tion, and  its  ethical  significance  is  no  less  noteworthy 
than  its  art. — Boston  Deacon. 


NEW    YORK   AND    LONDON  : 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS. 


Copyright,  1898,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 
All  rights  reservtd. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Dumb  Foxglove 3 

Apple  Jonathan 47 

Anna  Malann 85 

Davy's  Christmas 121 

Clavis 137 

A  Transient 161 

Aunt  Likfy 193 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 


All  the  golden  October  day  we  had  been 
driving  leisurely  along  through  the  Green 
Mountain  country. 

Everything  was  golden  that  fall.  It  had 
been  a  very  dry  season,  and  the  leaves  upon 
the  maples  and  other  forest  trees,  instead  of 
ripening  into  brilliant  hues  of  crimson  and 
scarlet,  had  all  taken  on  tints  of  yellow. 
Then,  when  the  autumn  winds  arose,  sud- 
denly the  whole  earth  was  carpeted  with 
saffron,  daffodil,  amber,  and  gold,  a  thick, 
soft,  rustling  carpet,  and  for  days  our  horses 
trod  upon  it,  and  our  wagon -wheels  rolled 
over  and  through  it.  Somehow  it  had  the 
effect  of  sunshine,  and  even  in  cloudy  weather 
we  were  in  the  light.  But  the  sun  shone  that 
day,  and  the  air  was  soft  and  warm.  There 
had  been  as  yet  no  heavy  frost,  and  the  late 
3 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

flowers  were  still  bright,  while  berry,  seed- 
vessel,  and  nut  were  gay  with  red,  blue,  rus- 
set, and  gold. 

Goldenrod  was  massed  by  the  road-side  in 
tints  to  match  every  shade  of  our  leafy  car- 
pet, making  for  it  a  gorgeous  border  of  gold 
color,  and  asters  contrasted  or  harmonized, 
with  their  hues  of  mauve,  blue,  purple,  lav- 
ender, and  white. 

The  twisted  orchid,  or  lady's-tresses,  with 
its  spike  of  frosted  white  bells,  smelling  of 
bitter  almonds,  clustered  thickly  in  damp 
spots  along  the  road-side ;  Joe  Pye  weed,  or 
pink  boneset,  stood  stiffly  erect,  with  flat- 
topped  clusters  of  dull -pink  feathery  blos- 
soms, and  sometimes  a  belated  St.-John's-wort 
added  its  yellow  to  the  prevailing  brightness. 
The  Avitch-hazel  bore  on  leafless  brown  boughs 
its  strange  flowers  of  straw  color  with  their 
sickly  sweet  odor  ;  and,  most  abundant  of 
all,  grew,  all  along  our  way,  the  dark -blue 
closed  gentian. 

There  were  so  many  berries  !  The  short, 
thick  spike  which  jack-in-the-pulpit  wears ; 
the  sapphire-blue  bear-plums  ;  those  of  trans- 
lucent garnet,  growing  like  a  bunch  of  ripe 
4 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

currants  on  the  little  smilacina ;  the  crim- 
son fruit  of  twisted-stalk,  hanging  singly  on 
slender  stems ;  the  mountain-holly's  rosy  red ; 
moose-berries ;  bunch-berries ;  the  red  cohosh 
and  the  white,  the  last  like  beads  of  white 
enamel  strung  upon  red  coral  stalks — all 
these  we  sav/  and  gathered  ere  the  day  ended. 
We  were  climbing  the  steep  turnpike  road 
which  crosses  the  mountains  from  Manches- 
ter to  Landgrove  and  Chester,  and  we 'often 
left  the  wagon  to  walk  by  its  side  or  linger 
behind  it,  in  the  soft  air  and  warm  sunshine. 
We  gathered  armfuls  of  maidenhair  and 
ostrich-ferns,  wild  flowers,  berries,  moss,  and 
lichen.  And  many  other  things  we  brought 
back  to  the  wagon  unknowingly ;  for  hun- 
dreds of  seed-vessels,  of  varied  forms,  prick- 
ly, bristly,  sticky,  barbed,  or  thorned,  clung 
to  our  garments,  as  we  scrambled  through 
the  tangle  of  plants  and  shrubs  at  the 
road-side,  or  strayed  into  the  forests  on  either 
hand.  The  long,  slender  Spanish  needles ; 
the  two -thorned  fruit  of  the  yellow  bur- 
marigold  ;  the  agrimony  seed  -  holders,  look- 
ing like  tiny  green  feather-dusters ;  the  odd, 
flat,   thin    joints    of   the   tick -trefoil   pods; 

5 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

the  small  green  burs  of  enchanter's  night- 
shade— all  these  and  scores  of  other  fast-hold- 
ing, close-clinging,  little  hindering  things  cov- 
ered our  clothing  and  pricked  our  fingers  in 
our  journey  that  day. 

We  were  to  spend  the  night  at  Peru,  that 
quiet  mountain  village  we  knew  so  well,  and 
among  whose  pleasant  people  we  had  many 
friends. 

The  bouquet  we  had  gathered  along  the 
way  was  not  a  satisfactory  one,  and  there 
was  little  of  beauty  about  it  when  we  reached 
our  destination.  The  golden  leaves,  full  of 
sunshine  as  they  hung  on  the  branches  or 
lay  in  our  pathway,  were  dried  and  shrivelled 
now  ;  the  berries  were  crushed,  or  had  fallen 
from  their  stems  ;  the  asters  looked  forlorn, 
with  their  rays  twisted  and  drooping.  But 
the  closed  gentians  were  unchanged,  and  we 
carried  into  the  house  with  us  a  big  bunch 
of  the  strange,  undeveloped,  bud-like  flowers 
of  dark  purple-blue.  And  it  was  the  sight  of 
these  blossoms  as  they  stood  in  the  old  cream- 
ware  pitcher  on  the  sideboard,  that  evening, 
that  made  Aunt  Eunice — every  one  in  Peru 
called  her  by  that  name — tell  the  story. 
6 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

"Yes,  I  know  it  isn't  its  real  name,  but 
that's  what  I  always  call  it  myself.  Ma  used 
to  call  it  that,  and  so  I  do.  And  it's  a  real 
good  name,  come  to  think  of  it — dumb  fox- 
glove. For  it's  a  good  deal  like  the  foxglove 
that  grows  in  the  garden,  you  know,  and  it's 
the  dumbest  flower,  for  a  real  full-growed 
one,  that  I  know.  Never  opens  out  into  real 
blowth,  you  see,  and  nothing  can  make  it. 
Water  or  sunshine  or  rich  soil,  loosening  the 
dirt  round  it,  or  transplanting,  or  anything, 
don't  make  any  difference;  it  won't  open 
out.  But  pick  it  open  and  there  'tis,  just 
like  the  prettiest  posy  in  the  world,  streaked 
and  painted  and  all,  and  nobody  ever  seeing 
it.  It's  dreadful  queer  why  it's  that  way, 
ain't  it?  If  the  pretty  part's  all  inside  and 
hid  and  shut  up,  and  isn't  ever  to  do  any- 
body a  mite  of  good,  why,  what's  it  made 
that  way  for?  Why  didn't  they  leave  the 
inside  just  plain,  not  finished  off  any,  sort  of 
skimped  that  part,  you  know,  that  wasn't  to 
show  ?  But  there  !  it  isn't  half  so  queer  and 
puzzling  about  posies  as  'tis  about  folks,  is 
it,  now  ?  For  you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  don't 
you,  there's  lots  of  folks  just  that  same  way. 
7 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

They're  all  shut  up  tight,  all  in  the  dark  and 
cold  and  lonesomeness,  and  never  showing 
the  pretty  part  inside  that  most  of  them's 
got  after  all.  I  never  see  that  dumb  foxglove 
that  I  don't  think  of  Colossy  Bragg.  -  She 
lived  just  down  the  road  there,  in  the  house 
with  so  much  of  that  wild-cucumber  vine 
running  over  it,  and  the  marigold  bed  in 
front. 

"  David  and  Lucy  Ann  Bragg  were  married 
a  good  while  before  they  had  any  children, 
and  they  were  dreadful  pleased  when  this 
one  came.  She  was  a  nice,  big  baby,  and 
they  thought  she  was  going  to  take  after 
Grandma  West,  and  be  tall  and  fleshy  and 
fine-looking.  So  they  named  her,  out  of  a 
book,  Colossa,  but  we  called  it  —  you  know 
how  they  do  with  such  names  about  here — 
Colossy.  Poor  child,  it  didn't  turn  out  a 
very  suitable  name  for  her.  She  was  a 
healthy,  nice  little  thing,  rugged  as  any  child, 
till  she  was  about  four  years  old.  Then 
something  took  her  —  the  doctors  never 
seemed  to  know  what,  exactly  —  and  she 
stopped  growing.  Her  legs  and  arms  were 
helpless  like,  and  she  couldn't  walk  or  use 
8 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

her  hands  much.  'Tvvas  the  pitifulest  sight 
to  see  her.  Her  mind  was  all  right ;  it  was 
only  the  poor,  pinched-up,  pindling  body  that 
was  wrong. 

"  H«r  face  was  real  pretty,  sort  of  thin  and 
white,  but  with  such  big,  dark,  purple -blue 
eyes,  almost  black  by  spells — they  made  me 
think  lots  of  times  of  the  color  of  those  dumb 
foxgloves — and  long,  black  eye-winkei's  curl- 
ing up  at  the  ends.  And  her  hair  was  long 
and  soft,  and  such  a  pretty  yellow,  and  it 
curled  all  round  her  head.  She  used  to  sit 
all  day  in  a  big  chair  with  pillows,  by  the 
southwest  window  there,  and  every  one  for 
miles  round  Peru  knew  that  pretty  white 
face.  'Twas  terrible  hard  on  her  pa  and  ma, 
they'd  set  so  much  by  her,  and  lotted  so  on 
v/hat  she'd  be  when  she  grew  up.  They 
learnt  her  to  read,  but  that  was  about  all. 
For  she  couldn't  use  her  hands,  so  there 
wasn't  any  ciphering,  or  drawing  pictures  on 
her  slate,  or  sewing  patch-work,  or  any  of  the 
things  girls  did  in  those  days.  She  never 
seemed  to  care  much  about  story-books.  To 
be  sure,  there  wa'n't  many  in  those  times ; 
not  what  young  ones  call  story-books  now- 
9 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

adays,  with  red-and-gold  covers  and  paint- 
ed pictures  and  all.  But  there  was  a  few  in 
the  place,  and  folks  was  glad  enough  to  lend 
them  to  poor  little  Colossy. 

"The  Braggses  owned  Pilgrim's  Progress 
and  Evenings  at  Home  themselves,  and  I  had 
Anna  Ross  and  Dairyman' s  Daughter.  And 
here  and  in  Landgrove  and  about  there  was 
Little  Henry  and  His  Bearer^  and  The  Shep- 
herd of  Salisbury  Plain,  and  some  numbers 
of  the  Juvenile  Miscellany,  and  there  was 
some  books  about  missionaries,  and  some 
travels.  She  had  them  all,  one  after  another, 
and  as  long  as  she  wanted  them,  but  they 
didn't  interest  her  much.  And  there  wasn't 
many  things  she  could  play.  Puss -in -the - 
corner  and  tag  and  blind-man's-buff  and 
trisket-a-trasket  and  all  such  running-about 
plays  was  out  of  the  question,  course,  and 
even  checkers  and  tit-tat-toe  and  fox-and- 
geese,  and  set-down  games  like  those,  she 
couldn't  play  at  on  account  of  her  poor,  help- 
less hands.  Why,  she  couldn't  even  put 
down  her  mite  of  a  forefinger  with  the  other 
children's  and  say,  '  Hinty  minty  cuty  corn,' 
to  see  who  was  '  it,'  as  the  youngsters  used  to 

lO 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

say.  She  had  a  kind  of  weak,  whisp'ry  voice, 
so  she  couldn't  even  sing  ;  and  she  didn't 
appear  to  care  much  about  hearing  tunes, 
neither.  So  you  see  she  was  nigh  as  much 
shut  lip  and  blind  and  dumb  a  little  creatur' 
as  that  flower  there. 

"You  wouldn't  have  thought,  when  you 
saw  her  sitting  in  her  high-chair,  bolstered 
up  with  pillows,  her  little  drawed-up  hands 
all  helpless  in  her  lap,  and  a  shawl  wrapped 
round  her  poor  feet  and  legs — you  wouldn't 
have  thought  there  was  anything  in  the 
world  to  interest  her  or  make  her  forget  her 
troubles.  But  there  was.  There  was  just 
one  thing  that  kept  her  up,  occupied  her 
mind,  amused  her  all  day  long,  and  made  her 
willing  to  live  and  be  so  different  from  the 
other  children.  How  it  came  first  into  her 
head  I  don't  know,  for  'twas  the  very  last 
thing  you'd  ever  expect  would  'a'  got  there, 
considering  what  she  was,  poor,  rickety  little 
mite. 

"  It  was  cooking !  Now,  o'  course  you 
know  she  couldn't  cook  with  her  own  hands, 
little,  limp,  crooked  things  that  they  was,  but 
some  ways  or  other  she'd  got  the  greatest 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

faculty  for  making  up  dishes.  'Twas  all  she 
really  cared  about,  the  only  thing  that  made 
her  little  bleached-out  face  lighten  up,  and 
those  queer,  pretty,  purply  eyes  shine  a  speck. 
She  was  all  the  everlasting  time  composing, 
as  you  might  say.  But  it  wasn't  verses  or 
stories  she  made  up,  but  things  to  eat,  vic- 
tuals. Where  she  got  it  all,  as  I  said  before, 
I  never  could  see.  There  wasn't  anything 
like  it  in  the  family,  either  side,  Braggses  or 
Wests.  Her  folks  liked  good,  plain,  filling 
.food,  and  plenty  of  it,  and  Colossy  hadn't 
ever  seen  anything  different.  But  from  the 
time  she  was  a  mite  of  a  young  one  she  was 
always  making  up  the  most  beautiful  re- 
ceipts, and  laying  out  the  most  fixed -up, 
company-looking  dishes.  To  this  day  I  often 
think  over  some  of  the  victuals  she  talked 
about,  and  I  can't  help  wishing  they  could 
be  tried ;  they'd  make  your  mouth  water, 
they  sounded  so  good  and  tasty. 

"  But  somehow  you  couldn't  make  them ; 
there  was  always  something  or  other  to  be 
put  in  that  you  couldn't  get,  even  if  you 
could  afford  it.  And  they  were  generally 
pretty  expensive  victuals,  too.     Real  receipt- 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

books  she  didn't  care  much  about.  Her 
mother  had  one  all  writ  out  nice,  in  a  little 
book  made  of  ruled  paper.  It  came  from 
Aunt  Huldy  West,  her  father's  sister.  And 
it  had  real  good  receipts,  too  :  baked  Indian 
pudding — the  Wests  was  always  great  for 
that — and  crollers,  and  Aunt  Jane's  tea-rusk, 
and  hard  gingerbread,  and  huckleberry  hol- 
ler, and  composition  cake,  and  lots  of  other 
things.  But  Colossy  didn't  care  to  hear  it 
much.  She'd  get  fidgety  after  a  spell,  when 
her  ma  was  reading  it,  and  then  's  soon  as 
she  got  a  chance  she'd  begin  something  of 
her  own.  Some  of  the  ingredients,  as  the 
cooking-books  say,  were  the  funniest  things. 
She'd  come  across  them,  I  suppose,  in  stories 
and  newspapers,  in  the  missionary  books  and 
the  travels,  but  most  of  all  in  the  Bible.  They 
were  queer,  outlandish,  foreign  things,  that 
couldn't  be  bought  round  this  part  of  the 
world,  if  they  could  anywheres.  But  she'd 
tell  them  off  till  you'd  know,  or  think  you 
did,  just  how  they  tasted,  and,  what's  more, 
could  see  the  whole  thing  dished  up,  too. 

"  It  all  comes  back  as  I  tell  about  it,  and 
I   can  'most   hear   Colossy's   croupy,  hoarse 
13 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

voice  saying  over  those  things.  '  Take  a 
teacupful  o'  anise  an'  cummin,*  she'd  croak 
out — 'an'  mind  it's  a  blue  chiny  teacup,  not 
a  plain  white ;  put  it  into  a  yaller  bakin'- 
dish,  an'  pour  on  a  pint  o'  milk  an'  honey. 
Beat  it  all  up  till  it's  white  an'  bubbly  and 
soapsudsy,  an'  then  add  ten  clusters  o'  rais- 
ins. Stir  for  an  hour  an'  twelve  'n'  a  half 
minutes  by  the  settin'-room  clock.  Then 
you  chop  up  the  peel  o'  nineteen  rorangers' 
— she  always  called  them  that — 'an'  mix  into 
the  hull  mess.  An'  then — now  listen,  Aunt 
Eunice,'  she'd  say,  so  solemn  an'  old-fash- 
ioned, 'for  this  is  the  most  partic'lerest  thing 
in  it — bile  five  an'  a  half  turtle-dove's  eggs 
kind  o'  hard,  take  off  the  shell,  an*  lay  'em 
over  the  puddin' — for  it's  goin'  to  be  a  pud- 
din'  this  time.  Aunt  Eunice — an'  bake  half 
an  hour  in  a  quick  oven.' 

"'And  what's  the  name  of  that?'  I  used  to 
ask,  just  to  please  her  and  show  I  was  lis- 
tening. 

"'Well,'  she  says,  slow,  and  stopping  to 

think  a  little,  'well,  that's  called  jest  a  Plain, 

Fam'ly  Puddin'.     But  here's  one  for  comp'- 

ny,'  says   she.     *I    made    it    up   last    night, 

14 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

when  I  couldn't  get  to  sleep,  my  back  hurt 
so,  and  it's  the  very  nicest  puddin' — this  is  a 
puddin',  too — you  never,  never  eat ;  an'  it's 
so  sightly  to  look  at,  an'  sets  off  the  table  so. 
Now  listen,  Aunt  Eunice,'  she  says.  '  It's 
called  Comp'ny  Puddin'.  Take  two  pomy- 
granites  and  crack  'em,  an*  pick  out  the 
meats  careful.  Chop  'em  fine,  an'  sprinkle 
over  'em  a  pinch  o'  frankincense  and  a  teen- 
ty,  teenty  speck  o*  myrrh.  Wet  it  up  with  a 
little  maple  surrup.  Then  take  some  fresh 
bread-fruit  an'  toast  a  few  slices  brown ;  lay 
'em  on  a  green -spriggled  chiny  meat -dish, 
an'  spread  your  pomygranite  sass  all  over 
'em.  Then  beat  the  whites  of  ten  ostrich's 
eggs  for  an  hour  'n'  a  half,  an'  lay  over  the 
hull;  sprinkle  with  light -brown  sugar,  an' 
dish  up  hot.  Oh,  Aunt  Eunice !'  she'd  say, 
with  her  little  thin  face  working  and  such  a 
pitiful  look  in  her  big  eyes,  '  I  wish  I  could 
try  it  my  own  self.  I  know  I  could  do  it,  an' 
oh,  how  I'd  like  to  beat  up  them  ostrich's 
eggs  an'  spread  'em  over,  all  sudsy  an'  nice, 
an'  then  sprinkle  that  light-brown  sugar  on  !' 
"'What's  pomygranites,  Colossy?'  I'd  ask 
her,  to  divert  her  mind  a  little. 
15 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

"'Why,  it  tells  about  'em  in  the  Bible,'  she 
says,  'an'  Mr.  Interpreter  give  some  to  Chris- 
tiana, in  Pilgrim's  Progress.' 

"  You  know  I  said  'twas  this  cooking  or 
making  up  dishes  that  helped  her  along,  and 
kept  her  amused  and  occupied.  Well,  it  did, 
one  way ;  but  another  it  made  her  uncom- 
fortable, for  she  did  want  so  bad  to  cook  and 
bake  and  mix  up  things,  to  be  over  the  fire, 
stirring  and  basting,  and  baking  and  boiling. 
She  ached  to  set  the  table  and  dish  up  the 
victuals,  and  make  things  look  as  they  did 
in  her  mind  when  she  composed  them.  She 
never  fretted  because  she  couldn't  play  about 
with  the  boys  and  girls,  or  hoppity-skip  along 
the  road,  or  slide,  or  run,  or  jump  rope.  But 
she  did  worry  a  good  deal  because  she  couldn't 
carry  out  the  things  she  had  in  her  head,  nor 
mix  a  single  one  of  the  sightly  and  tasty 
dishes  she  was  always  making  up.  '  Course 
I  like  to  think  about  'em,'  she'd  say  in  her 
husky  voice,  'but  lots  o'  times  I  think,  What's 
the  good  of  it,  anyway?  What's  the  use  o' 
settin'  here  an'  makin'  up  receipts  for  pud- 
din's  an'  cake  an'  jells  an'  all,  an'  never  try 
'em,  nor  see  'em,  nor  taste  the  teentiest  speck 
i6 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

on  'em?  I'm  tired  settin'  here,  an'  I'm  tired 
achin'  an'  keepin'  still  an' —  Oh,  I  do  jest 
want  to  have  a  bakin'-day  of  my  own,  an'  try 
some  o'  them  things  !' 

"'Twas  pretty  hard  to  know  what  to  say 
to  her  for  comfort.  She  was  a  good  little 
thing,  and  she'd  been  trained  right,  for  the 
Braggses  were  pious,  church-going  folks,  and 
I  really  believe  she  was  a  Christian  before 
she  was  ten  year  old.  But  that  didn't  make 
much  difference  as  to  the  thing  she  was  fret- 
ting about  just  then.  'Twasn't  heaven  and 
singing  and  all  the  glorious  things  we  know 
there'll  be  there  that  the  poor  little  thing 
was  achin'  for  those  times,  but  just  a  mite  of 
fussing  and  messing  and  cooking  before  she 
went  away  from  this  earth  that  was  such  a 
lonesome  place  for  her.  So  I  used  to  be  at 
my  wits'  ends  to  know  what  to  tell  her  to 
comfort  her  up  when  she  went  on  that  way  ; 
and  her  pa  and  ma,  they  were  just  as  bothered 
as  me.  But  there  was  one  person  that  hadn't 
any  such  scruples  as  we  had,  and  sometimes 
I  was  kind  of  glad  there  was.  'Twas  old  Mrs. 
Peavy  that  lived  next  door — Mother  Peavy, 
as  everybody  called  her.  She  was  real  old, 
B  17 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

a  good  deal  over  seventy  anyway  in  those 
days,  and  I  don't  know  but  she  was  a  mite 
childish.  But  she  was  smart  and  spry  for  her 
age,  and  her  eyesight  and  hearing  were  as 
good  as  ever.  And  she  was  a  dreadful  com- 
fort to  Colossy,  that's  certain.  For,  as  I  said 
before,  she  hadn't  any  scruples — that  is,  the 
kind  the  rest  of  us  had.  Maybe  you'll  think 
she  was  a  heathen,  or  a  heretic,  or  something 
of  that  sort,  when  I  tell  you  what  she  used  to 
say  to  the  child ;  but  I  am  sure  she  meant 
well,  and  it  did  seem  to  help  Colossy  lots. 

*"0h.  Mother  Peavy,'  the  young  one  would 
say,  'won't  I  never,  never  have  no  chance  to 
try  em?  If  I'm  real  good  an'  patient,  an' 
say  my  prayers  an'  my  catechis'  an'  my 
hymns,  an'  do  's  I'd  be  done  by,  an'  all,  won't 
I,  oh,  won't  I  never  be  let  to  try  a  single 
one  o'  them  receipts?  Jest  not  even  the 
b'iled  dish,  with  coriander  seeds  for  flav'rin', 
an'  thickened  up  with  fine  flour  mingled 
with  ile?    Oh,  won't  I,  Mother  Peavy?' 

'"Yes,  yes,  you  poor  little  cosset,'  Mother 
Peavy  'd  say ;  'don't  you  worry  an'  fret  over 
that.  If  you  want  to  mess  an'  cook  an'  try 
receipts  when  you  get  up  there,  you'll  be  let 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

to  do  it.  An'  you'll  be  able  to  then,  you 
know,  for  you'll  be  strong  an'  well  an'  rug- 
ged ;  for  there  ain't  a  single  inhabitant  up 
there  that  ever  says  "I'm  sick,"  an'  there 
won't  be  any  more  pain.  An'  your  poor  little 
drawed-up  fingers  will  be  straight  an'  sound, 
an'  your  legs  strong  and  limber.  An'  you'll 
lift  up  the  hands  that's  a-hangin'  down  now, 
and  the  feeble  knees,  as  the  Bible  says,  an' 
then  if  you're  set  on  cookin'  an'  dishin'  up 
they'll  let  you  try,  you  see  if  they  don't.' 

'"But,  Mother  Peavy,'  Colossy  'd  whisper 
in  her  hoarse,  short-breathing  way,  '  be  you 
certain  sure  they've  got  things  to  do  with  up 
there?  There's  harps,  an'  crowns,  an'  books 
to  sing  out  on,  an'  a  sea  o'  glass,  an'  golden 
streets,  an'  all  them  pretty,  pretty  things, 
but  mebbe  they  don't  have  the  kind  o'  things 
you'd  oughter  have  for  cookin'  an'  dishin'  up. 
Mebbe  it's  bad  to  want  'em.  Mother  Peavy, 
but — oh,  I  jest  do  sometimes  !' 

"  *  No,  'tain't  bad,  you  poor  young  one ;  they 
understand  up  there,  an*  they  make  'low- 
ances.  That's  what  they're  great  at  in  that 
place,  you  know,  makin'  'lowances  ;  must  be 
the  principal  thing  they  do,  these  times,  any- 
19     - 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

way.  An'  if  they  see  they  ain't  no  other 
means  o'  settin'  your  poor  little  mind  easy 
an'  showin'  you  there's  more  satisfyin',  fillin' 
things  than  victuals,  why,  they'll  give  you 
your  way  an'  let  you  try.  An'  as  for  there 
not  bein'  any  eatable  things  there,  why,  the 
Bible  tells  about  twelve  kinds  o'  fruit,  an' 
about  olive-trees  an'  oil  an'  wine.  An'  there's 
that  hymn  you  like  so  much,  about 

"  '  There  cinnamon  an'  sugar  grow. 
There  nard  an'  balm  abound.' 

Take  my  word  for  it,  Colossy,  there  won't  be 
no  lack  o'  things  to  do  with,  if  you  want  'cm 
bad.' 

"An'  the  child  would  take  a  dreadful  lot  of 
comfort  out  of  all  her  talk,  and  always  stop 
fretting,  at  least  for  a  spell. 

"  Now  I  know  it  wasn't  right ;  we  all  knew 
it.  The  way  was  to  show  her  how  much 
better  things  there  were  than  what  she  was 
set  on — spiritual  food  that  she  didn't  dream 
of,  poor,  stunted,  shut-up  little  soul.  But 
Mother  Peavy  always  made  out  that  there 
wasn't  any  harm  in  it ;  that  she  didn't  really 
say  there  would  be  cooking  and  dishing  up 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

there,  but  only  that  if  Colossy  was  still  set  on 
that  kind  of  amusement  after  she  got  there, 
she'd  be  let  to  try  it.  '  But  she  won't  want 
it  then,  you  see,'  she'd  say.  '  She'll  have 
better  work  there,  more  satisfyin'.  So  it 
don't  do  any  harm,  an'  it  does  go  against  me 
to  see  her  fret,  the  dear  lamb.' 

"  So  they  were  great  cronies,  she  and  Co- 
lossy,  and  had  long  confabs  together.  'Twas 
mighty  queer  talk  to  listen  to,  I  can  tell  you, 
and  you'd  get  all  mixed  up  and  confused  to 
know  whether  'twas  real  fiesh-and-blood  food 
of  this  world  they  was  dwelling  on,  or  the 
spiritual,  heavenly  sort.  For  'twould  be  man- 
na and  milk  and  honey  and  angels'  food  and 
unleavened  bread  and  balm  of  Gilead  and 
all  that,  which  might  be  just  figurative  or 
speaking  parables  like.  But  again  'twould 
be  cakes  and  puddings  and  stews,  with  spices 
and  oil  and  spikenard  and  leeks  and  onions 
and  almonds  and  turtle-doves  and  melons, 
till  your  mouth  watered. 

"  But  it  really  beat  all  how  much  that  child 
found  about  victuals  in  the  Bible ;  things 
none  of  us  ever  knew  was  there  till  she 
brought  them  into  her  receipts.     And  then 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

we'd  look  them  up  and  find  they  were  really 
there.  And  to  this  day  I  recollect  them,  and 
time  and  again,  as  I  come  across  them  in 
reading  a  chapter,  I  think  of  poor  little  Co- 
lossy  and  her  talk  :  fish  and  summer  fruit  and 
wheat  and  barley  and  millet  and  apples  and 
butter  and  broth  and  nuts  and  vinegar  and 
parched  corn  and  grapes  and  raisins  and  figs 
and — why,  I  can't  tell  half  of  them  now. 
Why,  once,  I  know,  she  told  about  some  dish 
or  other,  and  there  was  to  be  a  pound  of 
pannag.  We  thought  she'd  made  that  up, 
sure.  But  come  to  look  it  up,  there  'twas  in 
Ezekiel,  and  there  'tis  to  this  day,  though  I 
haven't  the  least  idea  what  'tis  or  where  it 
comes  from. 

"  Poor  little  creatur',  she  looked  for  that 
kind  of  thing,  and  of  course  she  found  it. 
There's  everything  folks  want  in  that  book. 
And  she  got  a  good  deal  of  a  real  different 
sort  of  comfort  out  of  it,  too.  She'd  be  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves  of  the  big  Bible  on  the 
table,  as  well  as  she  could  with  her  little 
twisted  bony  fingers,  looking  for  new  '  ingre- 
junts,'  as  she  called  them,  for  her  dishes,  and 
you'd  see 'such  a  pretty  look  come  on  her 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

white  face.  An'  she'd  draw  a  long  breath, 
as  if  she  was  resting  after  a  hard  job,  and 
look  up  with  her  big  purply  eyes  all  soft  and 
wet,  and  say  over  something  she'd  found 
there.  'Twas  something  generally  about 
getting  rest,  or  casting  your  burdens  off, 
or  being  carried  or  comforted  as  a  mother 
comforteth,  or  having  tears  wiped  away,  or 
something  like  that.  No,  it  was  not  all  vict- 
uals she  found  there.  But  it's  the  victuals 
part  of  the  story  I'm  telling  you  now. 

"  The  minister  that  time  was  Mr.  Robbins. 
He  was  a  real  good  man,  and  terribly  sorry 
for  Colossy.  He  used  to  go  and  see  her  a 
good  deal,  and  try  to  help  her,  and  teach 
her,  and  raise  her  thoughts  higher.  But 
when  she  got  on  that  favorite  topic  of  hers, 
why,  he  didn't  know  just  what  to  say.  'Twas 
a  sight  to  see  his  face,  after  he'd  been  reading 
and  talking  and  praying  with  her  a  spell,  and 
she'd  been  so  sweet  and  good,  and  seemed  in 
such  a  promising  state  of  mind,  when  she'd 
look  up  so  pitiful  just  before  he  went  away 
and  croak  out,  '  Oh,  Mr.  Robbins,  won't  you 
jest  listen  to  one  single  one  o'  my  receipts 
now  ?' 

23 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

"  He  generally  did,  for  he  was  a  good- 
natured  man  and  had  children  of  his  own, 
but  he'd  try  to  put  on  a  moral  at  the  end  and 
draw  some  kind  of  a  lesson  from  it  all.  '  Now 
hear  this,  Mr.  Robbins,'  she  says  one  time, 
speaking  slow  and  plain  as  if  she  was  read- 
ing from  a  receipt-book.  'Di-rec-tions  for 
ma-king  a  mess  of  pottage.' 

"  '  Yes,  yes,  my  little  girl,'  he  says, '  I'll  hear 
it ;  but  be  careful  lest  you  part  with  your 
own  heavenly  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pot- 
tage,' he  says. 

'"Yes,  sir,'  says  Colossy  very  quick,  for 
she  was  in  a  hurry  to  go  on  with  her  receipt, 
'  I'll  be  careful.  Take  one  fatted  calf ' — and 
on  she'd  go,  till  Mr.  Robbins's  face  was  just 
a  picture,  kind  of  puzzled,  and  sort  of  amused, 
too. 

"Or  she'd  tell  off  a  receipt  for  'raising  un- 
leavened bread,'  poor  little  cosset,  and  the 
minister  'd  remind  her  that  '  man  shall  not 
live  by  bread  alone.'  Again  'twould  be  some 
sort  of  a  savory  meat  stew,  and  he'd  counsel 
her  to  labor  not  for  the  meat  that  perisheth. 
But  he  was  always  good  and  kind  to  the  child, 
and  she  was  real  fond  of  him  to  the  last. 
24 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

"  Poor  little  thing,  she  took  it  all  out  in 
making  up  and  telling  about  victuals,  for  she 
hardly  eat  anything  herself.  Whether  it  was 
her  made-up,  make-believe  dishes  was  so 
good  it  took  away  her  taste  for  common, 
every-day  food,  I  don't  know,  but  she  didn't 
eat  enough  to  keep  a  robin  alive,  and  so,  of 
course,  she  didn't  get  very  strong  or  rugged. 
Fact  is,  you  couldn't  want  her  to  stay  on 
here,  suffering  and  shut  up  and  helpless  as 
she  was,  and  as  she'd  got  to  be  all  her  days. 
And  we  all  saw  pretty  soon  that  she  wasn't 
going  to  be  here  much  longer.  Her  little 
scrap  of  a  face  got  thinner  and  whiter,  and 
the  purple  eyes  bigger,  and  the  little  hands 
more  than  ever  like  bird's  claws;  and  her 
poor  little  body  was  wasted  away  and  weak. 
She  was  real  patient,  but  the  ache  in  her  back 
was  pretty  bad,  and  she  seemed  to  be  tired 
the  whole  living  time.  '  I'm  terrible  tired,' 
she'd  say  in  her  croupy  voice — 'tired  when  I 
lay  down,  an'  tired  when  I  set  up,  an'  nothin' 
don't  seem  to  rest  me  any.  Seems  's  if  I'd 
feel  better  if  I  could  only  walk  round  a  mite, 
an'  get  out  the  dishes  an'  sasspans,  an'  grease 
the  bakin'-plates,  an'  stone  some  raisins,  an' 
25 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

chop  some  citron,  an' —  Oh,  Aunt  Eunice,  I 
do  want  so  bad  jest  to  dish  up  a  dinner  once 
— only  once.  Aunt  Eunice.' 

"I  didn't  quite  dare  to  do  as  Mrs.  Peavy 
did,  and  tell  her  she'd  have  her  chance  some 
day,  but  I  did  go  so  far  sometimes  as  to  re- 
fer her  over  to  Mother  Peavy,  'What  does 
she  tell  you,  Colossy,  when  you  talk  so  ?'  I 
said. 

"  Her  face  brightened  up  a  little,  and  she 
answers,  'Oh,  Mother  Peavy  says,  when  I 
get  up  there,  if  I'm  set  on  messin'  an'  mixin' 
an'  cookin'  things,  why,  they'll  let  me  try  my 
hand  at  it.  They'll  know  I  'ain't  had  no 
chance  down  in  Peru,  'cause  o'  my  hands  an' 
my  legs  an-  my  back,  you  know,  an'  they'll 
make  'lowances.  That's  Avhat  they're  allers 
a-doin'  up  there.  Mother  Peavy  says,  makin' 
'lowances  for  folks.  She  says  she  don't  think 
I'll  want  to  do  any  dishin'  an'  bakin'  up 
there,  there's  such  splendid  things  to  do  that 
I  don't  know  nothin'  about  now.  She  says 
nobody  'ain't  never  heerd  nor  seed,  an'  it  'ain't 
come  into  nobody's  head  to  guess  at  sech 
things  as  they've  got  up  there  for  folks  that's 
good  an'  patient  an'  lovin'.  But  I  don't 
26 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

know  ;  I'd  like  jest  to  try  my  hand  a  little, 
if  they  don't  mind,  seems  's  if.  An'  if  I  do 
try,  why,  I'm  goin*  to  see  if  they  won't  let 
me  send  down  some  o'  my  very  fust  cookin' 
to  Mother  Peavy.  But  if  that  can't  be  done, 
I  mean  to  let  her  know,  't  any  rate,  that 
she  was  right,  an'  they've  let  me  try  my 
hand.' 

"  She'd  take  some  of  the  commonest,  plain- 
est kinds  of  food  to  experiment  on,  and  she'd 
have  a  receipt  for  it  with  something  in  it  you 
never  dreamed  of  putting  in  before.  Dough- 
nuts, I  know,  she'd  always  say  there  was  to 
be  the  third  part  of  a  hin  of  olive-oil  in  them. 
'What's  a  hin?'  I'd  ask  her;  and  she'd  say, 
'Well,  about  a  coffee-cup  full,  I  guess,  more 
nor  less.'  And  there  was  to  be  honey  from 
the  honey-comb  in  her  dough-nuts,  too.  And 
in  her  apple-dumplings  there  'd  always  got  to 
be  'jest  the  teentiest  pinch  of  aloes.'  And 
all  these  victuals  were  to  be  fixed  up  in  the 
tastiest  way,  and  on  the  queerest  kind  of 
dishes.  To  hear  the  solemn  little  old-fash- 
ioned young  one  tell  about  'butter  in  a 
lordly  dish,'  and  meat  cooked  in  a  caldron  or 
in  a  flesh-pot,  or  sodden  in  iron  pans,  and 
27 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

about  brazen  pots  and  earthen  pitchers,  was 
dreadful  odd. 

"  She  grew  weak  very  fast  near  the  end. 
She  didn't  go  to  bed,  for  it  hurt  her  more  to 
lie  down,  and  they  bolstered  her  up  in  her 
chair  with  the  pillows,  and  made  her  as  com- 
fortable as  they  could.  Her  voice  got  more 
and  more  husky  and  low,  down  to  a  whisper, 
'most,  but  she'd  talk  a  little  by  spells  up  to 
the  very  last.  She'd  make  up  receipts  still, 
but  they  were  pretty  short,  and  we  couldn't 
always  understand  what  she  said.  I  stayed 
there  all  I  could,  and  Mr.  Robbins  came  a 
good  deal,  and  old  Mrs.  Peavy  hardly  left  her 
for  days.  She  liked  to  hear  verses  about 
resting,  and  being  carried,  and  made  to  lie 
down  in  green  pastures,  and  having  her  tears 
wiped  away,  and  about  how  the  weary  are  at 
rest  and  the  sick  made  well.  But  by  spells 
she'd  think  about  what  she'd  always  set  her 
little  heart  on,  and  she'd  turn  towards  Mother 
Peavy  and  whisper,  'An'  mebbe  I'll  be  let 
to  try  makin'  some  of  them  things?  'Cause 
you  know  I've  never  had  any  chance  down 
here,  an'  they'll  make  'lowances  for  that.' 

"And  Mrs.  Peavy  'd  say,  stroking  her  yellow 
28 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

hair,  'Yes,  lovey,  they'll  make  'lowances  fast 
enough.  And  you'll  be  let  to  do  it  certain 
sure,  if  you  hanker  bad  after  it ;  don't  worry 
about  that.'  And  then  she'd  say  over  to  her, 
in  her  thin  old  voice,  her  favorite  piece  about 

"'There  cinnamon  an'  sugar  grow, 
There  nard  an'  balm  abound,' 

and  another  old-fashioned  hymn,  all  about 
milk  and  honey  and  wine  and  heavenly 
manna,  till  Colossy  'd  drop  off  to  sleep  like 
a  lamb. 

"  She  went  off  that  way  at  the  last,  bol- 
stered up  in  the  big  chair  by  the  window,  her 
poor  white  face  resting  against  the  pillows, 
and  her  pretty  yellow  hair  like  a  light  all 
round  her  head.  David  and  Lucy  Ann,  Mr. 
Robbins,  Mother  Peavy,  and  me  were  all 
there.  We  loved  her  dearly,  every  one  of 
us,  but  somehow  not  one  could  be  exactly 
sorry  when  the  tired  look  slipped  off  her 
little  thin  face,  and  the  bits  of  fingers  stopped 
twitching,  and  the  hoarse,  short  breathing 
was  all  still.  I  never  thought  as  much  of 
Mr.  Robbins  as  I  did  at  that  funeral.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  knew  just  the  right  things  to 
29 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

say  that  day — mostly  verses  from  Scripture, 
or  a  line  or  two  of  a  hymn.  I  can  hear  him 
now,  speaking  in  his  soft,  pleasant  way  about 
the  'bread  that  came  down  from  heaven,' 
'meat  to  eat  that  ye  know  not  of,'  'whoso- 
ever drinketh  of  the  water  that  I  shall  give 
him  shall  never  thirst';  and  those  comforting 
verses  about  how  '  they  shall  hunger  no  more, 
neither  thirst  any  more,'  and  how  '  blessed 
are  those  that  are  called  to  the  marriage- 
supper.'  And  then  he  led  off  in  his  nice, 
clear  voice  : 

" '  Food  to  which  this  world's  a  stranger, 
Here  my  hungry  soul  enjoys; 
Of  excess  there  is  no  danger; 
Tho'  it  fills,  it  never  cloys." 

"  Well,  'twas  about  a  week  after  we  put  the 
little  girl  to  rest  in  the  graveyard  over  there 
I  met  Mrs.  Peavy  one  day.  We  stopped,  and 
naturally  we  fell  to  talking  about  Colossy. 
Glad  as  I  was  to  have  the  child  at  rest,  I 
missed  her  lots,  and  I  said  so. 

"'You  were  real  good  to  her,  Mother 
Peavy,'  I  said.  'I  often  think  how  you  used 
to  comfort  her,  and  tell  her  that  maybe  she'd 
3° 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

have  a  chance  to  try  her  receipts  up  there,  if 
she  wanted  to.  Dear  little  thing,  she  under- 
stands better  now,  and  don't  trouble  her  head 
about  those  earthly  things.' 

"  Now,  I'd  always  thought  that  Mrs.  Peavy 
told  the  child  that  about  having  her  chance 
up  there  just  to  chirk  her  up  and  please  her, 
and  not  because  she  ever  dreamt  such  a  thing 
could  really  be.  So  I  must  say  I  was  took 
aback  when  she  shook  her  head  now  and  an- 
swered in  a  queer,  knowing  sort  of  way, 
'  She  'ain't  found  out  the  better  things  yet, 
that's  certain.  She's  got  her  chance,  and 
she's  a-makin'  use  of  it  right  along  ;  least- 
ways, up  to  yesterday  she  was.' 

*' '  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?'  I  says.  'What 
makes  you  say  that  ?' 

"And  then  she  went  on  and  told  me  the 
oddest  story.  She  said  she'd  been  thinking 
and  thinking  about  Colossy,  and  trying  to 
picture  her  all  well  and  rested  and  happy  in 
heaven  ;  but  for  the  life  of  her  she  couldn't 
see  her  in  her  mind  as  singing  and  praising 
and  doing  all  the  things  the  saints  and  angels 
are  said  to  do.  The  poof  young  one's  talk 
about  her  wanting  to  dish  up  and  mess  kept 
31 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

coming  into  her  head  to  spoil  everything. 
One  day  she  was  sitting  at  her  dinner.  She 
lived  all  alone  and  did  her  own  work.  And 
that  day  she  had  what  every  one  in  these 
parts  calls  '  b'iled  dish.'  You  know  what  I 
mean — beef  and  potatoes  and  carrots  and 
turnips  and  all.     And  she  says : 

"  *  I'd  jest  helped  myself,  and  was  going  to 
taste  of  it,  when  I  smelt  a  queer  kind  of  spicy 
smell.  I  couldn't  think  where  it  come  from, 
or  rec'lect  jest  what  'twas  like.  Then  I  took 
up  a  little  of  the  meat  and  put  it  in  my 
mouth,  and  I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of 
it.  I'd  made  that  b'iled  dish  that  day  with 
my  own  hands,  just  as  I'd  made  it  all  my 
life,  an'  my  mother  before  me.  But  this 
partic'ler  one  wasn't  any  more  like  mine  or 
ma's  or  any  Vermont  b'iled  dish  I  ever  see 
than — anything.  It  was  tastier,  more  flavory 
somehow,  and,  above,  all  there  was  that  cu- 
r'us  spicy  kind  o'  physicky  smell  and  taste. 
"What  can  it  be?"  thinks  I  to  myself.  "Is 
it  cloves  or  saxifrax  ?  Did  I  spill  any  nutmeg 
or  ginger  into  the  pot  while  'twas  b'ilin'  ? 
No,  'tain't  like  any  of  them.  It's  more  like 
that  rhubarb  jellup  I  used  to  make  after  old 
32 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

Dr.  Phelps's  receipt.  Lemme  see,  what  did  I 
put  in  ?  Rhubarb  root  an' — why,  it's  cori- 
ander seed  ;  that's  what  it  tastes  of !"  And 
in  a  jiffy  I  rec'lected  Colossy,  and*  how  she 
used  to  always  say  in  her  receipt  for  b'iled 
dish,  "Add  a  little  coriander  seed  brayed  in 
a  mortar." 

"'Well,  I  didn't  know  what  to  think,'  she 
went  on.  *It  seemed  'most  too  sing'lar  to 
believe  in.  But  to  save  my  life  I  couldn't 
help  surmisin'  that  maybe  —  jest  maybe  — 
they'd  let  her  try,  to  show  her  how  unsatis- 
fyin'  it  was  compared  to  other  things  up 
there.  And  she'd  always  said,  if  they  did, 
she'd  try  to  send  some  of  the  victuals  down 
to  me,  the  blessed  young  one ! 

" '  I  tried  to  get  it  out  of  my  head  and 
swallow  my  dinner ;  but,  deary  me,  every 
mouthful  choked  me,  and  I  salted  the  gravy 
with  my  cryin'  into  it,  thinking  of  that  poor 
little  soul.  Well,  the  next  day  was  Saturday, 
and  I  fried  some  dough-nuts.  The  taste  o' 
coriander  seed  bein'  all  out  of  my  mouth 
now,  I  begun  to  think  I'd  conceited  the  whole 
thing  and  'twas  all  foolishness.  But  when  I 
set  down  to  supper  and  took  a  dough-nut,  I 
c  33 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

hadn't  more'n  bit  into  it  than  I  see  'twasn't 
one  o'  my  dough-nuts,  Aunt  Maria's  receipt, 
sech  as  I'd  made  for  more'n  forty  year. 
These  was  rich  an'  light,  and  sort  o'  iley,  and 
there  was  a  strong  taste  o'  honey  about  'em, 
a  thing  I  never  use  in  cookin'.  Oh,  Aunt 
Eunice,  then  I  knowed,  I  knowed  they  was 
lettin'  that  poor  child  have  her  way  for  a 
spell,  jest  to  learn  her  a  lesson.  "Fine  olive- 
ile  an'  honey  from  the  honey-comb,"  she  used 
to  say  in  her  receipt  for  dough-nuts.  And 
when  the  gingerbread  tasted  o'  spikenard, 
and  the  apple -dumplings  was  jest  a  little 
bittery  like  aloes,  and  everything  I  made — 
or  thought  I  made — was  different  from  any 
Peavy  cooking  ever  done  in  the  family,  then 
I  see  plain  I  was  right.  And  it's  only  yes- 
terday I  made — or  thought  I  made  —  some 
one-two-three-four  cake,  the  old  plain  receipt; 
and  it  came  out  the  most  cur'us,  spicy,  milk- 
an'-honeyish,  balmy,  minty  thing — oh,  you 
never  did !' 

"  I  tell  you,  as  Mother  Peavy  went  on  I 

began  to  think  she  was  really  crazy.     She'd 

always  been  a  little  peculiar,  and  she  was 

growing  old,  and  Colossy's  death  had  weighed 

34 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

on  her  mind,  and  I  thought  it  had  fairly  up- 
set her  now.  I  tried  to  reason  with  her,  and 
show  her  how  such  a  thing  as  she  thought  of 
could  never  be.  But  I  couldn't  make  any 
impression.  I  told  her  it  was  dreadful  to 
think  of  heaven  in  that  way,  and  that  dear 
little  girl  losing  all  the  light  and  glory  and 
all,  for  such  earthly,  gross  kind  of  employ- 
ments. I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  it.  Mrs. 
Peavy  looked  sort  of  mournful,  and  she  says, 
'  'Tis  dreadful,  I  know.  I  did  hope  Colossy  'd 
put  it  all  out  of  her  little  head,  once  she  got 
there.  But  there  can't  be  any  mistake.  If 
I  am  old,  I  'ain't  lost  my  faculties,  leastways 
my  taste,  and  I  know  what  I've  been  eating 
all  this  week.  They've  got  some  good  reason 
for  it  up  there,  take  my  word  for  that ;  but 
oh,  I  do  wish  she'd  learn  about  the  better 
things  there  is.' 

"  Well,  I  meant  to  go  over  and  see  the  old 
lady  next  day  and  taste  some  of  her  victuals 
myself,  to  show  her  what  a  mistake  she  was 
making.  But  I  took  a  bad  cold  that  night, 
and  didn't  go  outside  the  door  for  'most  a 
week.  The  first  day  I  was  well  enough  I 
started,  but  I  met  Mrs.  Peavy  coming  over 
35 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

to  my  house.  It  upset  me  to  see  her,  she 
looked  so  terrible  white  and  changed  and 
old. 

'"Oh,  Aunt  Eunice,'  she  says,  'it's  dread- 
ful, dreadful.  That  poor  little  thing's  at  it 
still.  She's  turning  my  sody  biscuits  into 
unleavened  bread,  and  my  pies  into  pottage  ; 
there's  lentils  in  my  corn -beef  hash,  and 
fitches  in  my  johnny-cake;  and  oh,  deary, 
deary  me,  there's  mint,  anise,  and  cummin 
in  every  bit  of  victuals  that  comes  on  the 
table.  Poor  ignorant  little  soul,  what  can 
she  be  thinking  of !  It  jest  breaks  my  heart, 
Aunt  Eunice,  for — oh,  'twas  I  done  it,  I  done 
it !'  and  she  just  wrung  her  hands. 

"  It  seemed  she'd  got  it  into  her  head  that 
her  tellin'  Colossy  she'd  have  a  chance  and 
they'd  let  her  try  things  had  made  the  poor 
child  beg  for  it ;  and  now  she  liked  it  so  well, 
after  never  having  had  anything  of  the  sort 
all  her  days,  that  she  couldn't  give  it  up.  It 
seems  a  crazy  idea,  I  know,  but  'twas  terrible 
real  to  her,  and  as  she  said  herself,  it  'most 
broke  her  heart. 

"'I  thought  'twould  be  sech  a  comfort,' 
she  went  on,  'to  think  of  that  child  among 
36 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

the  blessed  ones,  all  straight  and  well  and 
rested,  all  dressed  in  clean  white  robes,  prais- 
ing and  worshipping  and  loving,  walking 
along  the  banks  of  the  river  or  down  the 
streets  o'  gold.  And  now  to  think  of  her 
keepin'  on  and  on  this  way — oh,  'tain't  right, 
'tain't  right.' 

"I  saw  she  needed  some  one  wiser  and 
better  than  me,  and  I  went  that  night  to 
Mr.  Robbins  with  the  whole  story.  I'd  cal- 
culated he'd  be  very  much  put  out  by  such 
foolishness,  and  think  it  was  wicked  and 
making  light  of  sacred  things.  But  when  I 
got  through  I  saw  his  eyes  looked  kind  of 
moist,  and  he  had  to  cough  and  clear  out  his 
throat  before  he  could  say  anything.  So  I 
spoke  again  to  give  him  time,  and  I  says, 
'  Mother  Peavy's  growing  old  and  she's  get- 
ting childish.' 

"  'Well,'  says  he,  'that's  what  we've  all  got 
to  be  to  get  at  the  truth  of  things.  "  Except 
ye  become  as  little  children,"  you  know  ;  and 
childish  and  unreasonable  as  the  good  old 
soul's  idea  is,  there's  a  lesson  in  it.  Let  us 
go  and  see  her.' 

"  And  we  did ;  but  he  couldn't  do  her  much 
37 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

good.  She  had  got  so  upset  and  shaky  that 
she  couldn't  do  anything  but  cry  and  bewail 
her  having  put  things  into  little  Colossy's 
head  and  spoiled  her  heaven  for  her. 

"At  last  Mr.  Robbins  said,  'Well,  Mrs. 
Peavy,  suppose  we  lay  this  before  the  Lord 
and  ask  His  aid,'  and  then  he  prayed.  I 
never  shall  forget  that  prayer.  You  see  no- 
body but  Catholics  ever  prayed  for  dead- 
and-gone  folks  then,  and  I  suppose  they  don't 
now;  and  our  church  was  always  strong 
against  it,  of  course.  And  I'd  heard  Mr, 
Robbins  himself  preach  a  powerful  discourse 
about  it  from  the  text,  '  Where  the  tree  fall- 
eth,  there  it  shall  be.'  But  I  suppose  he  saw 
now  it  was  a  time  for  strong  measures,  and, 
scruples  or  no  scruples,  he  must  quiet  this 
good  old  soul.  So  he  prayed  for  Colossy  ! 
I  can't  help  thinking  he  meant  that  prayer 
more  to  help  Mother  Peavy  than  to  do  Co- 
lossy  any  good ;  but  'twas  beautiful,  't  any 
rate.  Of  course  I  can't  remember  just  the 
very  words.  But  he  asked  that  the  child 
might  rest  in  peace  and  have  light  given 
unto  her,  that  she  might  with  the  other  little 
ones  always  behold  the  face  of  her  Father. 
38 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

And  he  asked  that  she  might  drink  of  the 
water  of  life,  clear  as  crystal,  and  eat  of  the 
heavenly  manna,  and  be  satisfied.  And  he 
ended  up  by  asking  that  her  friends  here  be- 
low might  be  given  the  full  assurance  of  the 
little  one's  peace  and  rest.  In  all  the  years 
he  was  settled  in  Peru  I  never  heard  him 
pray  so  earnest,  and  I  was  certain  sure  in  my 
own  heart  he'd  be  heard.  Then  he  asked 
Mrs.  Peavy  if  he  and  I  could  come  over  next 
day  and  eat  dinner  with  her.  'And  you 
must  have  one  of  your  good  old-fashioned 
dinners  for  us,  Mrs.  Peavy,'  he  says,  'and 
we'll  tell  you  just  what  we  think  of  it.' 

"  So  we  went.  She'd  made  b'iled  dish,  and 
it  looked  real  tempting  and  just  like  her  old 
way  of  making  it,  for  she  was  a  real  good 
cook.  But  she  was  all  shaky  and  trembly, 
her  face  looked  drawn  up  and  old,  and  she 
could  hardly  sit  up  to  the  table  without  help. 
Mr.  Robbins  asked  a  blessing,  and  then  the 
dinner  was  helped.  I'll  own  up  I  was  a  little 
nervous.  The  queerer  the  ideas,  you  know, 
the  more  catching  they  are.  And  I'd  thought 
so  much  of  what  the  old  lady  had  said  of  the 
tastes  and  smells  in  her  cooking  lately  that 
39 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

I  felt  almost  creepy  with  being  afraid  I 
should  find  it  that  way  myself.  *  Oh  dear,' 
I  says  to  myself,  'if  there  should  be  a  cori- 
ander-seed flavor !'  But  there  wasn't.  Mr. 
Robbins  began  first,  and  I  followed  right 
away.  It  was  the  same  good,  well-seasoned, 
Peru  b'iled  dish  I'd  eat  dozens  of  times  be- 
fore at  that  table.  Mrs.  Peavy  didn't  taste 
of  hers  at  first.  I  really  don't  think  she  could 
raise  her  spoon  to  her  mouth,  she  shook  so. 
But  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  our  faces,  first  one, 
then  the  other,  leaning  'way  over  and  looking 
and  looking,  as  if  she  was  hoping,  but  scared. 

" '  Well,'  speaks  up  Mr.  Robbins,  *  this  is 
good  indeed.  One  of  your  best  old-fashioned 
dishes,  Mrs.  Peavy.  I  should  know  that  this 
was  a  Peru  b'iled  dish  if  I  was  a  hundred 
miles  away,'  and  he  went  on  eating  it. 

"'Yes,'  I  says,  following  his  example,  'I 
always  liked  Mrs.  Peavy's  way  of  making  it 
— just  the  pepper-and-salt  seasoning,  and  no 
flavors,  as  some  folks  use.' 

"  She  looked  real  earnest  at  us,  and  then 
she  says,  low  and  quivery,  *  Don't  you — take 
notice — of  a  leetle — coriander-seed  taste — 
just  a  leetle  ?' 

40 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

"And  we  both  hurried  up  to  say  there 
wasn't  one  bit  of  that — not  a  suspicion,  Mr. 
Robbins  said. 

"  She  didn't  look  quite  satisfied,  though 
just  a  mite  more  comfortable.  Then  she 
took  some  of  the  gravy  in  a  spoon  with  her 
shaking  hand  and  put  it  to  her  mouth.  She 
spilt  some  and  she  could  hardly  swallow  any, 
but  I  see  her  face  clear  up  a  little,  and  she 
sort  of  whispered  to  herself,  'She's  let  that 
alone,  anyway.' 

"  Then  we  had  some  apple-dumplings,  and 
'twas  the  same  way.  Mother  Peavy  waited 
and  watched,  half  hoping,  half  frightened, 
till  Mr.  Robbins  led  off,  eat  some  and  praised 
them  up,  and  I  followed  on. 

"'An' — there — don't  appear — to  be  —  any- 
thing— a  speck — bittery?'  she  says,  leaning 
across  to  us  and  asking  so  solemn  —  'not 
enough  to — spile  'em,  but — something  like — 
aloes  ?' 

"And  again  we  hurried  on  to  tell  her 
there  wasn't  a  taste  of  such  a  thing,  not 
a  taste.  Then  she  managed  to  swallow  a 
little  herself,  and  again  I  saw  her  features 
light  up  a  mite,  and  she  whispers  to  her- 
41 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

self    again,   'An'   she   'ain't    meddled   with 
them.' 

"After  that  came  dough-nuts  and  cheese 
with  our  cup  of  tea,  and  that  was  just  the 
same.  After  Mr.  Robbins  had  praised  them 
up,  and  I  had  done  it  after  him,  and  she'd 
asked  us  in  the  same  scared,  nervy  way  if  we 
was  sure  we  couldn't  taste  a  flavor  o'  olive-ile 
or  honey,  we  told  her  decided  there  wasn't 
anything  at  all  like  that ;  they  were  just 
good,  old-fashioned  Peavy  dough-nuts.  They 
were  the  last  thing  on  the  table ;  she'd  tried 
all  the  rest,  and  I  saw  she  was  more  scared 
now  than  any  time  before,  when  she  took 
one  in  her  trembling  fingers  and  tried  to  lift 
it  up  to  her  mouth.  I  thought  for  a  minute 
I  should  have  to  do  it  for  her,  but  she  man- 
aged it  somehow,  and  got  a  piece  between 
her  poor,  shaking,  twitching  lips.  I  thought 
I  was  prepared  for  anything,  worked  up  as  I 
was  over  this.  But  I  did  break  down  like  a 
baby  when  the  good  old  soul  burst  out,  the 
tears  running  down  her  wrinkled  face  in  a 
shower,  and  the  heavenliest  smile  shining 
through  them  like  a  rainbow,  '  She's  found  it 
out — oh,  bless  the  Lord,  she's  found  it  out  at 
42 


DUMB    FOXGLOVE 

last !  No  more  messin'  an'  fussin'  with 
earthly  things  for  Colossy  Bragg.  She's 
looked  up  higher,  and  seen  the  light  at  last. 
Oh,  thank  the  Lord,  thank  the  Lord  !' 

"  We  both  went  over  to  her.  Seems  to  me 
now,  as  I  look  back,  we  was  both  crying,  but 
I  disremember  all  about  that.  We  got  her 
quiet  after  a  spell,  but  for  a  long  time  she 
^kept  sobbing  out,  '  I'm  so  glad,  I'm  so  glad. 
Your  praying  done  it,  Mr.  Robbins.  They've 
took  the  blessed  child  up  higher  now,  and 
they've  sent  me  word.' 

"  Well,  there  was  a  story  went  around  the 
whole  county,  after  that,  that  Mr.  Robbins 
was  on  the  road  to  Rome,  as  they  said. 
Maybe  you've  heard  it.  It  all  came  from 
that  prayer  he  made  at  Mrs.  Peavy's  in  be- 
half of  little  Colossy  Bragg's  soul.  But,  as 
I  said  before,  it's  my  opinion  that  prayer  was 
meant  more  to  help  the  living  than  the  dead, 
and  somehow,  some  ways,  it  answered  its 
purpose." 


APPLE  JONATHAN 


APPLE  JONATHAN 


No  one  who  knew  the  Stonington  of  thirty- 
years  ago  can  fail  to  remember  old  Jonathan 
Tripp,  the  apple-dealer.  His  quaint  figure 
and  wagon  with  its  spicy  load  were  as  fa- 
miliar to  all  who  lived  in  or  visited  the  village 
as  was  the  Road  Meeting-house,  the  old  light- 
house on  Windmill  Point,  or  Roderick  Na- 
than's store.  But  although  I  recall  with  won- 
derful distinctness  the  face,  form,  words,  and 
actions  of  the  old  man,  I  find  my  memory 
failing  me  upon  certain  points  of  detail.  I 
am  not  quite  sure  where  his  house  and 
orchard  were  situated,  but  I  have  a  strong 
impression  that  they  were  in  North  Stoning- 
ton. I  know  that  I  often  met  him  driving 
his  wagon  into  the  borough  from  that  direc- 
tion. Nor  do  I  know  if  he  himself  raised  all 
the  fruit  he  sold,  or  whether  he  brought  into 
47 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

market  the  produce  of  his  neighbors  together 
with  his  own.  But  I  feel  well  assured  that 
never,  before  nor  since,  did  I  see  or  taste  such 
apples  as  those  old  Jonathan  Tripp's  wagon 
bore. 

He  was  not  often  called  by  his  whole  name. 
The  Stonington  boy  of  that  day  had  a  rare 
faculty  for  bestowing  appropriate  nicknames, 
and  to  the  old  vender  of  the  fruit  so  dear  to 
all  New-Englanders  they  gave  the  name  of 
Apple  Jonathan. 

If  you  who  read  this  sketch  are  of  Con- 
necticut origin,  especially  if  you  have  ever 
lived  in  dear,  salty,  rocky  old  Stonington, 
you  will  not  need  that  I  should  tell  you  of 
the  toothsome  dish  that  bears  this  name. 
Does  not  your  mouth  water,  do  not  your 
eyes  grow  moist,  as  you  recall  it,  taken  smok- 
ing-hot  from  the  brick  oven,  and  sending  out 
the  spicy,  aromatic  odors  nothing  else  can 
quite  equal?  Think  of  the  golden  -  brown, 
crisply  tender  paste,  the  rich  flow  of  sweet 
but  piquant  juice,  redolent  of  cinnamon, 
cloves,  and  I  know  not  what  else  ;  the  deli- 
cate slices  of  apple  cooked  thoroughly,  but 
never  too  soft ;  the — oh,  you  know  it  all.     If 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

not,  no  words  of  mine  can  make  you  under- 
stand. And  so  old  Jonathan  Tripp  was  known 
in  the  borough,  in  Milltown,  Flanders,  Mystic, 
Pawcatuck,  Voluntown,  and  for  miles  around, 
as  Apple  Jonathan. 

Day  after  day  the  black  wagon,  drawn  by 
the  old  gray  mare,  rattled  along  the  road, 
loaded  with  baskets  and  bags  of  the  homely, 
fragrant  fruit.  There  were  gillyflowers  of 
dark  purple-red  and  pear-like  shape  ;  golden- 
sweets  big  and  yellow  ;  the  little  Denison 
reddings,  all  crimson  and  shining  outside, 
and  with  the  white  crisp  meat  streaked  and 
veined  with  red  ;  Prentice  russets  of  bronzy 
brown,  the  larger  and  greener  Cheeseb'rin' 
russets,  spicy  red  Spitzenbergs,  Rhode  Island 
greenings,  seek  -  no  -  furthers,  scarlet  Astra- 
khans, pumpkin-sweets,  Roxbury  russets,  the 
Northern  spy,  the  Newtown  pippin,  pear- 
mains,  red -streaks,  sheep's  -  noses,  Baldwins, 
Peck's  pleasants. 

Then  there  were  rare  and  choice  varieties 
I  with  mysterious  names,  of  whose  origin  Apple 
Jonathan  would  never  speak.  Such  was  the 
Lang'orthy  fav'rite,  a  large,  sweet,  very  juicy 
fruit,  its  yellow  skin  thickly  dotted  with  black. 
D  49 


APPLE   JONATHAN 

Of  this  kind  he  was  very  choice,  bringing  but 
a  dozen  or  so  at  a  time  in  a  covered  tin  pail, 
with  a  cloth  tied  down  tightly  over  the  lid. 
Then  there  was  the  Tripp  tart  to  bake  for 
invalids.  These  were  so  very  rare  as  to  be 
brought  by  twos  or  threes  in  the  pocket  of 
the  old  man's  coat.  I  well  remember  the 
smell  and  the  taste  of  one  of  those  brought 
me  when  recovering  from  some  childish  ail- 
ment. It  was  cooked  in  a  delightful  way, 
suspended  by  a  string  from  the  wooden  man- 
tel, and  revolving  slowly  in  front  of  the  hard- 
coal  fire  in  the  grate  of  the  keepin'-room. 
A  saucer  was  placed  below,  just  inside  the 
fender,  to  catch  and  hold  the  dripping  juice. 
What  matter  if  a  little  ashes  fell  down  and 
mingled  with  that  syrupy  stuff,  half  sweet, 
half  sour  ?  I  ate  it  all,  that  Tripp  tart  juice, 
and  longed  for  more.  It  was  currently  sup- 
posed that  no  perfectly  sound  and  well  person 
had  ever  tasted  a  Tripp  tart  apple.  Even 
old  Jonathan  himself,  when  asked,  once  upon 
a  time,  if  he  did  not  think  this  variety  a  little 
sweeter  than  in  old  times,  replied,  doubtfully, 
that  he  "  wa'n't  certain  sure  about  it,  for  he'd 
had  a  long  spell  o'  good  health."  And  I  doubt 
5° 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

not  that  many  a  man  and  woman  of  to-day 
finds  the  very  name  of  Tripp  tart  a  potent 
charm,  calling  up  a  far-away  childhood,  a 
restless  night,  an  aching  head,  small  burning 
hands,  or  a  shivery  little  body.  Somehow 
those  childish  pains  and  aches  do  not  seem 
so  bitter  in  memory,  and  we  think  now  a 
good  deal  more  of  the  cool  soft  hands  which 
touched  the  head  and  cheek  so  gently,  turned 
the  hot  pillow,  and  held  the  restless  little 
fingers. 

Apple  Jonathan  himself  was  a  tall,  spare, 
awkward  man,  with  rounded,  stooping  shoul- 
ders, thin  gray  hair,  and  a  lean,  brown, 
weather-beaten  face.  I  can  see  him  plainly 
in  recollection,  with  his  shabby  brown  over- 
coat, the  gray-and-red  woollen  comforter  tied 
about  his  neck,  the  blue -yarn  mittens,  the 
faded  cloth  cap  drawn  down  over  his  ears,  as 
he  drove  day  after  day  along  the  roads  and 
lanes.  Now  he  would  stop  at  Nabby  Lord's 
with  some  pie-apples  for  her  Saturday  bak- 
ing, again  at  Uncle  Sim  Lewis's  to  leave 
a  bushel  of  the  old  man's  favorite  green- 
ings, then  down  the  lane  by  the  old  Trim- 
ble place  to  take  a  Tripp  tart  to  little 
51 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

Billy  Merritt,  just  getting  up  from  scarlet- 
fever. 

Again  and  again  as  he  passed  along  he  was 
hailed,  sometimes  by  a  woman  with  her  shawl 
over  her  head,  who  would  run  out  with  a 
milk -pan  for  some  golden  -  sweets  for  the 
children,  or  pippins  for  apple-sauce  ;  some- 
times by  a  boy  or  girl  with  a  big  copper 
cent  to  spend  for  juicy  fruit.  Again,  it 
might  be  a  man  with  an  order  for  a  barrel 
or  two  of  gillyflowers  or  seek-no-furthers  for 
the  winter  evenings.  Large  or  small,  the 
order  was  promptly  filled,  and  the  stock 
seemed  inexhaustible. 

But  Apple  Jonathan  was  not  merely  a  deal- 
er in  apples ;  he  was  a  lover  of  the  fruit,  which 
he  knew  thoroughly  in  all  its  forms,  stages, 
developments.  I  do  not  mean  simply  that  he 
understood  its  cultivation,  preservation,  and 
uses,  though  these  he  did  understand  well. 
But  all  his  thoughts  and  his  words  were  of 
his  favorite  fruit ;  he  found  in  it  something 
for  every  emergency  ;  he  used  it  for  illustra- 
tion, for  suggestion,  for  moral  lesson — every- 
thing. 

"  Tell  me  I  set  too  much  by  apples,"  the 
5« 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

old  man  would  say.  "Why,  I  couldn't  do  it. 
There  ain't  no  sech  thing  as  settin'  too  much 
by  'em.  They're  the  one  thing  in  all  this 
shaky,  onsartin'  airth  of  ourn  that  stands  by 
you  alius,  an'  don't  never  fail  nor  disapp'int. 
Set  your  heart  on  clothes,  or  houses,  or  live- 
stock, or  even  folks,  and  more'n  likely  they'll 
turn  out  as  you  don't  want  'em  to.  Clothes 
will  tear  or  rip  or  grow  shiny  most  the  fust 
time  you  put  'em  on  ;  your  new  house  will  be 
draughty  or  smoky  or  leaky  or  suthin' ;  your 
creatur's  will  ail,  or  fall  into  holes  an'  break 
their  legs,  or  be  struck  by  lightnin';  an'  folks 
—  well,  everybody  knows  what  folks  is,  an' 
how  they  ain't  to  be  depended  on  for  a  stiddy 
supply  o'  comfort  best  o'  times.  But  apples 
never  disapp'ints  ye.  There  they  be,  year 
arter  year,  seed-time  an'  harvest  an'  all,  right 
by  ye,  never  failin',  never  hurtin'  ye,  never 
turnin'  out  diff'ent  from  what  you'd  expected, 
an'  ready  for  every  single  state  o'  mind  or 
sitooation  o'  body  you  could  git  into.  S'pose 
you've  had  a  disapp'intment  o'  some  kind,  an' 
you've  begun  to  feel  as  if  there  wa'n't  any- 
thing to  be  depended  on  in  this  mortal  airth, 
that  everything's  a  fleetin'  show  for  man's 
53 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

delusion  given,  that  there  ain't  nothin'  what 
it's  made  out  to  be,  that  *  each  pleasure  hath 
its  p'ison  too,  an'  every  sweet  its  snare,'  why, 
you  jest  go  to  your  apple  barrel  for  a  gilly- 
flower, say,  if  that's  the  kind  you  like.  You 
take  a  apple  out,  an'  there  'tis.  It's  a  gilly- 
flower, an'  it's  gillyflower  color,  dark  an'  pur- 
ply  red  like  them  hollyhawks  by  the  fence 
there.  It  don't  come  out  yeller  like  a  golden- 
sweet,  nor  brownish  like  a  Prentice  russet, 
nor  streaky  like  a  Spitzenberg;  it's  just  what 
it  alius  was  as  to  color.  Then  it's  gillyflower 
shape,  too.  'Tain't  big  'round  an'  squatty  like 
a  greenin',  nor  little  like  a  Denison  reddin'  ; 
but  it's  kinder  long  an'  slopin',  as  gillyflowers 
alius  was  an'  alius  will  be.  Then  you  come 
to  the  proof  o'  the  puddin',  's  they  say — the 
eatin*.  You  bite  into  it.  'Tain't  so  tasty  an' 
high-flavored  one  way  as  a  seek-no-further, 
nor  so  nice  an'  sweet  as  a  sweetin',  nor  sech  a 
pleasant  tart  as  the  Davis  sour ;  mebbe  'tain't 
so  good  reely  as  any  o'  them  kinds,  but  it's 
itself  anyway,  an'  jest  what  you  knowed 
'twould  be,  mashy  an'  half  an'  half  sorter,  not 
very  decided  tastin'  anyway,  but  it's  gilly- 
fiowery,  an'  that's  what  you  want  jest  now, 
54 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

an'  you  says  to  yourself, '  Here's  suthin'  cert'- 
in,  suthin'  I  can  lot  on  an'  never  be  disap- 
p'inted.'  Tell  me  that  don't  help  ye  ?  It 
can't  miss  o'  doin'  it. 

"  Or  s'pose  ag'in  you're  sick,  an'  nothin' 
seems  to  do  you  any  good — doctors'  stuff,  nor 
yarbs,  nor  nothing.  Why,  you  have  to  come 
to  apples.  If  you're  run  down  an'  pindlin',  an' 
need  stren'th'nin'  an'  stimerlatin',  why  there's 
new  cider  or  old  apple-jack  to  build  ye  up. 
Or  ag'in,  if  it's  t'other  way,  an'  you're  too  hot- 
blooded  an'  filled  up  an'  pulsy,  why,  there's 
nothin'  so  coolin'  an'  down-pullin'  as  a  froze- 
an'-thawed  apple  on  a  empty  stomach.  If  it's 
nettle-rash  or  erysipler,  or  any  outside  skin- 
ny thing  like  that,  a  poultice  o'  sour  apples 
spread  on  is  the  best  thing  in  the  world — lots 
better  'n  cramb'ry.  For  a  hackin'  cough  you 
take  apple  surrup  with  a  leetle  bit  o'  flaxseed 
or  slipp'ry  ellum.  For  bitters,  when  you  don't 
relish  your  victuals,  why,  you  stick  a  Rhode 
Island  greenin'  full  o'  cloves,  an'  roast  it  'fore 
the  fire,  an'  when  it's  done  through  pour  some 
New  England  rum  over  it — as  much  as  it  '11 
soak  up ;  sprinkle  some  dried  tansy  an'  worm- 
wood leaves  with  a  pinch  or  two  o'  camamile 
55 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

flowers  over  it,  an'  take  it  afore  eatin'.  There 
ain't  nothin'  apples  can't  cure,  take  it  in 
time. 

"  But  s'pose  you  ain't  sick,  but  kinder  tired 
o'  meat  an'  potaters  an'  fish  an'  clams  an' 
lobster,  why,  live  on  apples.  There's  apple- 
sass  an  apple-butter  an'  dried-apple  pie  an' 
green-apple  pie,  an'  apple-dumplin's,  an'  apple 
turnovers,  an'  apple  slump.  There's  steamed- 
apple  puddin'  an'  bread  -  an' -  apple  puddin'. 
There's  baked  apples  an'  stewed  apples  an' 
preserved  apples  an'  fried  apples.  There's 
apple  jell  an'  apple  marm'lade  an' — why,  you 
could  live  on  nothin'  but  apples  for  a  year, 
an'  never  have  the  same  dish  two  days 
runnin' !" 

And  so  the  old  man  would  run  on  as  long 
as  any  one  would  listen  to  his  talk.  On 
topics  of  general  interest  he  had  nothing  to 
say.  He  knew  little  of  public  affairs,  poli- 
tics, wars,  or  even  the  local  village  gossip. 
He  was,  according  to  most  standards,  a  very 
ignorant  man.  He  could  read  slowly  and 
with  difficulty,  spelling  out  laboriously  the 
larger  words.  He  wrote  a  little,  and  knew 
enough  of  figures  to  "tot  up"  his  accounts 
56 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

in  the  apple  trade.  Not  a  very  liberal  edu- 
cation, you  see.  But  he  had  picked  up  much 
odd,  out-of-the-way  information  —  religious, 
biographical,  historical  —  relating  to  his  fa- 
vorite theme.  To  humor  his  fancy,  for  he 
was  a  general  favorite  in  the  town,  people 
brought  to  the  old  man  any  facts  they  could 
gather  relating  to  his  hobby.  And  he  laid 
them  away  carefully,  till  his  mind  was  a  queer 
storehouse,  an  apple  -  cellar,  so  to  speak,  of 
pomological  treasure.  And  he  knew  how  to 
bring  out  these  bits  of  learning,  casually  as 
it  were,  in  his  daily  conversations,  often  giv- 
ing one  the  impression  that  he  was  a  student 
and  a  thinker,  and  had  read  and  absorbed 
many  books. 

He  did  read  his  Bible  a  great  deal.  He  was 
a  good,  pious  old  soul,  and  if  his  religion 
seemed  strongly  flavored  by  his  favorite 
fruit,  can  we  blame  or  judge  him  ?  Is  there 
not  decided  individuality  in  each  one's  creed, 
and  do  not  our  own  peculiar  tastes  influence 
strongly  the  hopes  and  fears  of  our  theolog- 
ical sentiments  ?  I  never  saw  Apple  Jona- 
than read  any  book  but  the  Bible  —  an  old 
leather-bound  copy  which  was  his  constant 
57 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

companion  —  and  a  queer  old  hymn  -  book, 
which  he  knew  by  heart.  Of  this  last  I  know 
but  one  copy,  which  is  unique  as  far  as  I 
know.  Its  title  is  Divine  Hymns,  a  Collection 
by  Jos/ma  SmitJi  and  Others,  and  it  is  full  of 
quaint  verses,  which  the  old  man  was  fond 
of  repeating.  I  suppose  that  the  principal, 
perhaps  the  sole  reason  that  it  was  included 
in  his  small  library  was  because  of  one  hymn 
which  bore  upon  his  beloved  hobby.  It  is  a 
curious  old  piece,  entitled  "  Christ,  the  Apple- 
Tree."  However  strangely  it  may  sound  to 
modern  ears,  it  certainly  did  not  strike  any 
of  us  who  heard  it  in  Apple  Jonathan's  thin, 
quavering  voice  as  irreverent,  or  lacking  in 
a  sort  of  homely  fervor.  I  quote  here  some 
of  the  lines,  and  I  can  almost  hear  his  very 
tones,  while  a  faint  spicy  odor,  as  from  an 
orchard,  seems  to  fill  the  air  : 

"  The  Tree  of  Life  my  soul  hath  seen, 
Laden  with  fruit,  and  always  green  ; 
The  trees  of  nature  fruitless  be 
Compared  with  Christ,  the  apple-tree." 

One  verse  begins  : 

58 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

"  I'll  sit  and  eat  this  fruit  divine ; 
It  cheers  my  heart  like  spiritu'l  wine"; 

and  this  Jonathan  would  repeat  with  great 
feeling,  thinking  of  his  own  beloved  earthly- 
fruit,  though  never  forgetting,  I  am  sure,  the 
divine  with  its  spiritual  cheer. 

There  seems  to  be  a  good  deal  about  fruit 
in  that  old  book.  Perhaps  Joshua  Smith 
and  others  had  orchards  too.  One  of  them 
sings  : 

"  There  we  shall  see  that  fruitful  tree 
Which  bears  twelve  times  a  year, 
Whose  lovely  fruits  so  sweetly  suits 
All  heav'n's  guests  for  cheer." 

And  another  addresses 

"  My  children  dear  that  now  appear 
Like  blossoms  on  the  trees." 

It  is  in  this  last  hymn  that  the  writer  says : 

"  You  know  that  then  five  out  of  ten 
Of  virgins  did  prove  fools; 
Why  may  not  you  be  found  so  too. 
If  you  take  up  their  rules?" 

59 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

Although  this  stanza  bore  no  allusion  to 
apples,  Jonathan  often  quoted  it.  He  was 
an  old  bachelor,  and  there  was  a  tinge  of 
something  like  contempt  in  the  way  in 
which  he  sometimes  spoke  of  woman  and 
her  capacities.  According  to  him,  she 
judged  an  apple  by  its  exterior,  the  color 
or  gloss  of  its  skin,  or,  worse  yet,  by  its 
price,  a  very  belittling  thing  to  do. 

"I  never  knowed  a  woman  hardly,"  he 
would  say,  "  that  was  a  real  jedge  o'  apples. 
They  don't  never  seem  to  have  what  I  call 
a  tasty  fac'lty.  Course  they  can't  help 
knowin'  when  a  apple's  out  an'  out  sour,  or 
up  an'  down  sweet ;  but  the  betwixts  an'  be- 
tweens,  the  half-ways,  the  jest  off  one  an'  a 
mite  on  t'other,  why,  they  can't  ketch  it — 
minds  ain't  strong  enough.  Why,  there's 
Tildy  Bliven,  she  makes  a  great  time  over 
my  Lang'orthy  fav'rites,  an'  one  time  I  asked 
her  what  she  held  to  be  the  p'int  o'  that 
apple,  the  thing  that  made  it  diff'rent  from 
other  apples  ;  I  jest  wanted  to  see  what  she'd 
say  ;  an'  she  says,  'Why,  I  call  it  sweet,'  says 
she.  'Nothin'  else?'  says  I.  'Why,  it's  aw- 
ful dear,*  she  says  ;  '  highest  priced  you've 
60 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

got,  'most.'  Now  that  shows.  Why,  any 
mafi  would  'a'  told  ye  the  main  p'int  of  a 
Lang'orthy  fav'rite  was  juice,  lots  o'  juice, 
an'  all  on  it  with  jest  the  leetlest  taste  an' 
smell  o'  sweet  -  birch.  I've  knowed  women 
treat  comp'ny — men  comp'ny  too,  that  knows 
what  good  fruit  is — to  lady-apples,  an'  noth- 
in'  else,  jest  'cause  they  was  pink  an'  yeller, 
an'  looked  pooty  on  a  blue  willow- ware  plate  !" 

Apple  Jonathan  was  an  even  -  tempered, 
kindly  man,  and  rarely  showed  any  acidity 
or  real  bitterness  in  his  feelings.  The  only 
occasions  on  which  I  have  seen  him  give 
vent  to  much  irritation  or  annoyance  were 
when  any  of  the  "city  folks," summer  visitors, 
staying  at  the  old  Wadawannuck,  made  in- 
quiries of  him  concerning  some  species  of 
apples  unknown  to  him.  That  piqued  and 
vexed  the  old  man  sorely.  I  met  him  one 
day,  out  on  the  east  road,  shaking  his  head 
and  muttering  to  himself,  with  a  very  troubled 
look  on  his  brown,  wrinkled  face. 

"  Jest  come  from  the  hotel,"  he  said.   "  Man 

from  Philadelphy  wanted  to  know  if  I'd  got 

any  twenty-ounce  apples.     I  wa'n't  goin'  to 

let  on   I  never  heered  on   'em,  so   I   says  : 

6i 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

'  'Tain't  the  season  for  twenty-ouncers.  The 
kep'-over  ones  is  gone,  an'  the  new  crop  ain't 
ripe.' 

"An'  then  a  lady  she  run  out  an'  she  says  : 
'  Ain't  you  got  any  New  Jersey  codlins  ? 
That's  the  only  specie  my  husband  can  eat,' 
she  says. 

"  Codlins  !  codlins  !  Better  call  'em  tora- 
cods  an'  done  with  it,  an'  buy  'em  from  Abel 
Wilcox,  the  fish-man.  I  'ain't  no  patience 
with  them  'ere  furren  fruits  an'  names.  Ev- 
ery apple  that's  good  for  anything  is  raised 
in  Stonin'ton  borough,  or  within  five  miles  on 
it,  't  any  rate." 

We  often  teased  the  old  man  and  tried  to 
draw  from  him  some  of  his  odd  information 
as  to  the  fruit  he  sold,  by  pretending  to  decry 
it  and  seeming  to  doubt  its  close  connection 
with  the  history  of  the  universe. 

"Why, what  has  it  to  do  with  geography, 
for  instance?"  one  of  us  would  ask. 

"  Jography  ?  Why,  it's  got  everything  to  do 
with  jography.  'Tis  jography  itself.  How 
does  the  books  go  to  work  when  they  want  to 
lay  down  the  very  beginnin'  o'  things  an'  tell 
how  the  airth's  shaped  ?  They  say  it's  like  a 
62 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

apple,  kind  o'  round,  but  a  little  flattened  off 
at  the  stem  an'  blossom  ends.  They  couldn't 
give  no  idea  o'  the  airth  if  'twa'n't  for  apples, 
an'  we  might  'a'  got  to  conceitin'  'twas  narrer 
an'  p'inted  like  a  pear,  or  skewy  an'  knobby 
like  a  quince,  or  with  a  turnover  handle  like 
a  crook-neck  squash,  if  we  hadn't  got  jest  the 
thing  to  measure  it  off  by." 

"  But  history,  Uncle  Jonathan — how  about 
that  ?" 

'**  Hist'ry  ?  It's  jest  chock  -  full  on  'em  ! 
You  rec'lect  about  the  man  that  put  the  ap- 
ple on  his  boy's  head  —  a  greenin',  I  guess 
'twas  ;  that's  flattest  at  the  bottom,  an'  would 
set  good  without  jogglin' — an'  fired  at  it.  An' 
then  there's  that  story  that's  in  all  the  school- 
books,  they  say,  about  a  prize  apple  they  give 
one  time  to  the  best-lookin'  woman,  an'  the 
time  they  had  over  it.  It's  jest  so  to-day 
at  our  county  fairs  an'  fruit  shows ;  there's 
sure  to  be  trouble  about  the  premiums,  par- 
tic'lar  if  there's  women  in  it.  But  that 
wa'n't  in  Conne'ticut,  but  out  Troy  way, 
I  believe.  An'  then  there's  that  story  they 
tell  about  George  Washin'ton  an'  his  cut- 
tin'  his  pa's  apple-tree.  Oh,  hist'ry's  jest 
63 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

as  full  o'  apples  as  this  peck  measure  here 
is." 

"But  arithmetic  —  do  apples  come  into 
that  ?"  we  would  ask, 

"  More  'n  anything  else,"  Apple  Jonathan 
would  reply.  "I  hear  the  boys  an'  girls  at 
Miss  Lucy  Ann's  school  sayin'  their  lessons 
when  I'm  waitin'  outside,  days.  Teacher  says, 
*  If  John's  got  fifteen  apples,  an'  he  gives 
Mary  six,'  an'  so  on  an'  so  on,  '  how  many,' 
she  says,  '  has  he  got  left  ?'  '  An'  if  a  bushel 
o'  apples  cost  so  much,'  says  she,  '  how  much 
does  a  barrel  come  to  ?'  An'  so  'tis,  over  'n 
over — apples,  apples,  apples. 

"  More  'n  that,  they  can't  learn  young  ones 
to  read  without  'em.  I  heerd  Hepsy  Pome- 
roy  sayin'  over  her  letters  t'other  day,  an' 
'twas  all,  *  A  apple-pie,  B  bit  it,  C  cried  arter 
it,  D  danced  for  it,'  an'  so  on  an'  so  on,  from 
A  to  Zed  and  Ampersand. 

"  What  you  gigglin'  at  now  ?  They  ain't 
got  anything  to  do  with  courtin'  an'  love- 
makin'  ?  Well,  I  don't  know  what's  got 
any  more.  How'd  you  tell  whether  your 
sweetheart  likes  you  or  not  'thout  namin' 
apples  an'  then  countin'  the  seeds,  an'  sayin' : 
64 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

'"One  I  love,  two  I  love,  three  I  love  I  say. 
Four  I  love  'ith  all  my  heart, 
And  five  I  cast  away,' 

an'  so  on  ?  Or  ag'in,  how'd  you  git  the  fust 
letter  of  her  name  if  you  didn't  have  a  apple- 
parin'  to  throw  'round  your  head  an'  drop  on 
the  floor  ?  An'  do  you  suppose  there  was  ever 
a  couple  kep'  comp'ny  here  in  the  borough  or 
anywhere  else  'thout  a  dish  o'  apples  set  out 
when  he  come  to  see  her  ?  I  was  sayin'  that 
once  to  Elder  Frink,o'West'ly,  an' he  laughed 
kind  o'  foolish,  an'  owned  right  up  that  he  be- 
gun courtin'  Mis'  Frink — she  was  Selmy 
Noyes,  ye  know  —  by  givin'  her  a  bite  of  a 
pumpkin  -  sweet  at  recess  when  he  wa'n't 
fourteen  years  old.  You've  got  to  ask  me 
suthin'  harder  'n  that. 

"Now  about  the  Scripters — that's  the  great- 
est. They're  jest  full  o'  apples.  In  the  fust 
place,  in  the  very  beginnin',  ye  know,  there 
was  the  gardin  o'  Eden,  an'  the  best  tree 
there,  the  very  ch'icest,  everybody  knows, 
was  a  apple-tree.  You  rec'lect  all  that  story, 
an'  you  know  what  come  on  it.  A  apple  was 
the  one  thing  Adam  an'  Eve  couldn't  stan' 

E  65 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

bein'  tempted  by,  an'  they  give  way.  So,  you 
see,  'riginal  sin,  that  the  ministers  make  so 
much  on  nowadays,  was  started  by  apples. 
That  wa'n't  the  fault  o'  the  apples,  but  the 
folks  that  made  a  bad  use  on  'em. 

"  Then  Solomon,  he  was  the  wisest  man  't 
ever  lived,  an'  he  couldn't  find  a  stronger  com- 
parin*  or  measurin'  to  use  than  to  say,  '  As  a 
apple-tree  is  compared  to  other  trees.'  He 
set  a  great  deal  by  apples,  Solomon  did.  The 
Bible  says  he  writ  a  book  about  trees,  an'  I 
often  think  I'd  like  to  git  hold  on  it  an'  see 
what  he  said  about  the  Lang'orthy  fav'rite, 
f 'r  instance.  He  talks  about  bein'  *  under 
the  apple-tree,'  an'  he  says  to  his  folks  once, 
'  Comfort  me  with  apples,'  he  says,  showin' 
that  he  knowed  what  they  could  do  to  raise 
your  sperrits  an'  chirk  ye  up  when  low  in 
your  mind.  Why,  the  best  thing  he  can  liken 
a  good,  seas'nable,  appropri'te  sayin'  to  is  to 
apples  o'  gold — golden-sweets,  I  s'pose  —  in 
picters  o'  silver,  that  is,  set  out  on  a  shinin' 
pewter  plate  or  Brittany  waiter;  'tis  as  hand- 
some 's  a  picter  then,  ye  know. 

"  An'  then  Joel,  one  o'  the  old  prophets,  he 
tells  about  the  apple-trees  bein'  all  withered  ; 
66 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

kind  of  a  blight,  ye  see.  To  be  sure,  he  men- 
tions the  palm-tree  in  the  same  c'nection,  but 
that  was  a  mistake,  I  guess.  I  dun'no'  what 
palm-trees  is  good  for  except  for  fans  to  keep 
in  the  pews  at  meetin'. 

"An'  then  there's  one  sayin'  that's  come 
down  from  them  Bible  times  about  the  apple 
of  our  eye.  That  means  the  thing  we've  set 
our  hearts  on,  the  very  best  thing  we've  got 
— the  apple,  ye  see,  of  our  eye.  They  had  to 
use  the  apple,  ye  see,  to  figur'  that  out  too." 

There  was  in  the  village  at  that  time  a 
boy  named  Joseph  Peckham,  but  universally 
known  as  Joe  Ricketts.  His  misshapen  little 
figure,  rounded  shoulders,  crooked  legs,  large 
head,  and  pale,  thin  face  were  well  known  to 
every  one  in  Stonington.  He  was  wonder- 
fully intelligent,  fond  of  reading,  and  had  a 
remarkable  memory.  To  this  boy  Apple 
Jonathan  seemed  greatly  drawn,  and  the  two 
were  close  friends.  It  was  from  Joe  Ricketts 
that  the  old  man  learned  much  of  the  apple 
lore  he  dealt  out  with  the  fruit  itself  to  his 
customers.  It  was  little  Joe  who  hunted  out 
from  books,  papers,  or  magazines  stories  about 
the  fruit,  found  out  for  his  old  friend  the  ori- 
67 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

gin  of  the  different  names  his  apples  bore,  and 
the  history  of  each  variety.  I  cannot  remem- 
ber them,  those  old  tales.  I  do  not  know  now 
who  was  the  Peck  who  gave  his  name  to  the 
Peck's  pleasant,  nor  the  Denison  who  had  for 
namesake  the  little  redding.  I  am  not  quite 
clear  as  to  which  particular  branch  of  the 
Cheesebroughs  belonged  the  discoverer  of  the 
Cheeseb'rin'  russet,  nor  why  the  Astrakhan 
should  bear  that  furry  name.  But  Apple 
Jonathan  knew  it  all,  and  it  was  little  Joe 
Ricketts  who  told  him. 

There  was  one  apple  in  the  old  man's  or- 
chard whose  name  puzzled  both  him  and  his 
little  humpbacked  teacher.  A  young  tree  had 
been  given  him  years  before  by  an  old  farmer 
long  ago  dead,  and  to  the  best  of  Jonathan's 
recollection  he  had  called  it  the  Neester  ap- 
ple-tree. That  name  was  inexplicable  to  little 
Joe.  No  such  family  as  Neester  was  known  in 
the  town,  nor,  as  far  as  he  knew,  in  the  neigh- 
boring villages.  Neither  was  there  any  place 
of  that  name  known  to  the  boy,  or  to  any  of 
whom  he  made  inquiries.  He  was  piqued  and 
interested,  and  determined  to  solve  the  mys- 
tery. No  trained  antiquarian  or  philologist 
68 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

could  have  thrown  himself  more  eagerly  into 
the  question.  He  said  the  word  over  and 
over,  suggested  theories,  and  again  demol- 
ished them. 

"I  wonder,"  said  he,  in  one  of  his  talks 
with  Apple  Jonathan,  "if  that  tree  didn't 
useter  stand  in  the  northeast  corner  o'  the 
lot,  an'  so  they  came  to  call  it  the  Nor'easter, 
an'  then  Neester  ?" 

"  That's  so,  sonny,"  said  the  old  man ; 
"  that's  reas'nable  'nough.  Nor'easter ;  I 
bet  that's  how  it  come  about.  What  a  head 
you've  got,  Joe  !" 

"It's  big  'nough,  ain't  it?"  responded  the 
boy.  "  But,  arter  all,  I  don't  b'lieve  it's  Nor'- 
easter ;  it  don't  sound  right  somehow, does  it  ?" 

"No,  it  don't,  it  don't,  sonny.  Can't  you 
hit  on  suthin'  likelier?" 

"  You  cert'in  sure  that  farmer  didn't  call  it 
the  Yeasty  apple  ?"  asks  the  boy.  "  Then  ye 
see  it  might  be,  'cause  it's  kind  o'  light  an' 
juicy  like  yeast  emptins,  ye  know.  Yeasty 
apple,  wa'n't  that  it  ?" 

"  Mebbe  'twas,  mebbe  'twas,"  the  old  man 
agrees.     "  But  somehow  I've  allers  rec'lected 
it  as  the  Neester  apple-tree." 
69 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

**  That's  so,"  the  boy  would  answer.  "  You 
wouldn't  get  it  so  dreffle  diff'ent  's  all  that. 
No,  it  can't  be  Yeasty.  But,  deary  me,  what 
can  it  be,  anyway  ?" 

The  farmer  who  had  given  this  puzzling 
fruit  to  Jonathan  was  a  Miner,  and  had  lived 
at  Quiambaug  Cove,  and  to  this  place  Apple 
Jonathan  and  Joe  made  several  voyages  of 
investigation.  But  they  met  with  little  suc- 
cess. Jubal  Miner  had  died  many  years  be- 
fore, and  none  of  his  immediate  family  re- 
mained. He  had  never  married,  but  lived 
with  his  brother's  daughter  Mercy,  who,  after 
the  death  of  her  uncle,  had  married  and  gone 
West. 

"There  !"  exclaimed  Joe  Ricketts,  one  day, 
as  he  went  over  this  part  of  the  story;  "I  bet 
we've  got  it  now.  He  lived  with  his  niece, 
didn't  he?  Now,  why  didn't  he  name  that 
apple  arter  her,  an'  call  it  Nieceter,  'cause  o' 
her,  his  niece,  ye  know  ?" 

"  Jes  so,  jes  so,"  says  Apple  Jonathan.  "  I 
rec'lect  Massy  Miner ;  she  was  a  real  likely 
gal ;  an'  Jubal  he  sot  everything  by  her. 
Neester,  arter  his  niece  ;  that's  so,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  I  d'no,"  says  the  boy  ;  "  it  don't  seem  to 
70 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

satisfy  me  some  ways.  If  he'd  wanted  to 
name  it  arter  her,  he'd  'a'  called  it  the  Massy 
apple,  or  Massy's  fav'rite,  or  suthin'  like  that. 
No,  I  ain't  got  it  right  yit." 

After  a  talk  of  this  nature  one  day,  as  the 
boy  rode  along  the  village  streets  by  the  old 
man's  side,  the  wagon  drew  up  before  the 
green  door  of  Miss  Esther  Carew.  "Wait  a 
minute,  sonny,"  said  Jonathan  ;  "  I  promised 
to  speak  to  Miss  Easter  about  some  pie- 
apples." 

Now  in  Stonington,  and  through  all  New 
England,  I  think,  the  name  Esther  was  pro- 
nounced Easter.  It  was  often  spelled  so,  and 
I  have  found  it  in  that  form  on  many  an  old 
gravestone.  As  Apple  Jonathan  came  out  of 
the  back  gate  and  rejoined  the  boy,  little  Joe 
cried  out : 

"  I  'most  b'lieve  I  got  it  this  time.  Wa'n't 
there  an  Easter  'mong  Jubal  Miner's  folks, 
an'  didn't  he  name  it  arter  her,  an'  call  it  an 
Easter  apple  ?" 

"  Sounds  likely,"  responded  Jonathan,  "  but 

I  don't  rec'lect  any  one  o'  that  name  in  the 

family.     We'll  find  out.     I  hope  'tis  that  way, 

for  I  alius  liked  that  name.     In  my  hymn- 

71 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

book  here  there's  a  piece  called  '  Composed 
on  the  Death  of  a  Wife.'  I've  spoke  it  to 
you,  you  know  ;  that  one  that  says : 

"  '  Now  like  a  disconsolate  dove 
I'm  left  all  alone  for  to  mourn.' 

An'  her  name  'peared  to  be  Easter,  for  in  one 
stanzy  he  says : 

" '  An'  jine  that  eternal  new  song 
An'  with  my  kind  Easter  to  sing.' " 

So  to  Quiambaug  again  they  journeyed 
to  look  for  a  possible  Esther  among  Jubal 
Miner's  folks.  But  no  trace  of  any  one  bear- 
ing that  name  could  be  found  among  the 
Miners,  nor  in  the  closely  connected  families 
of  Wheelers  or  Yorks. 

It  was  on  a  blustering  day  in  early  March, 
as  the  old  apple-dealer  rode  down  the  main 
street  of  the  village,  that  he  saw  Joe  Ricketts 
hobbling  towards  him  up  "  the  doctor's  lane." 
Joe  waved  his  little  thin  hand,  and  Jonathan 
stopped  and  took  him  in.  The  boy's  face 
was  bright  with  excitement  and  interest, 

"Mebbe  —  we've  —  got  it  this  time,"  he 
gasped,  out  of  breath  with  his  exertion. 
72 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

"I  jest  cameacrost  it  in  a  Sabba'-school  book 
Ben  Niles  lent  me.  D'ye  know  there  was 
another  kind  o'  Easter  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Apple  Jonathan,  in  a  surprised 
tone.     "What  is  't — a  woman ?" 

"  Oh  no  ;  it's  a  day — a  day  some  folks  keep. 
Jever  hear  of  it,  Uncle  Jonathan  ?" 

Now  you  must  remember  that  the  feasts 
and  festivals  of  what  is  called  the  Christian 
Year  were  but  little  heeded  at  that  time  in 
Puritan  New  England.  There  was  no  Epis- 
copal church  then  in  Stonington,  and  in  the 
other  churches  the  custom  of  holding  services 
upon  Christmas  or  Easter  was  quite  unknown. 
I  doubt  not  there  were  many  in  the  village 
and  town  who  had  never  heard  of  Easter 
Sunday,  though  knowing  well  all  about  the 
glorious  fact  it  is  intended  to  commemorate. 

So  Apple  Jonathan  shook  his  head.  "  Never 
heerd  of  a  day  like  that,  Joe,"  he  said.  "  What's 
it  kep'  for  ?" 

Now  poor  Joe  Ricketts  was  very  close  to 
being  a  heathen.  There  had  been  little  in 
his  wretched  life  to  make  him  anything  else. 
He  remembered  nothing  of  father  or  mother, 
but  made  his  home — if  we  can  give  the  place 
73 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

that  beautiful  name — with  a  crabbed,  soured 
old  aunt,  who  beat  and  abused  the  boy. 
Apple  Jonathan,  though  a  religious  old  soul, 
was  reticent  upon  sacred  themes,  save  so  far 
as  they  seemed  associated  with  his  favorite 
pursuit,  and  had  taught  the  boy  little  of  what 
might  have  brought  much  light  and  comfort 
to  the  stunted,  dwarfed  soul  shut  up  in  its 
queer,  battered  cage.  I  will  not  give  you  the 
story  of  Easter  as  the  boy  told  it.  You  would 
hardly  recognize  the  tale  in  its  quaint,  homely 
form.  But  Jonathan  knew  it  for  what  it  was. 
His  wrinkled  brown  face  took  on  a  softened 
look  as  he  interpreted  the  story,  and  with  the 
aid  of  his  old  Bible  and  hymn-book  tried  to 
make  it  clear  to  little  Joe.  This  is  no  place 
in  which  to  say  much  of  that,  nor  of  the  hope 
which  began  to  dawn  in  the  boy's  soul  of  a 
possible  change  some  day  in  the  rickety, 
aching  body  he  dragged  about  so  wearily. 
But  after  all,  though  there  was  such  an 
Easter  as  this,  what  had  Jubal  Miner's  apple- 
tree  to  do  with  it  ?  Neither  Jonathan  nor  Joe 
could  explain  this. 

"  Did  the  book  say  what  time  o'  year  this 
Easter  come  ?"  asked  Jonathan. 
74 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

"Said  it  changed  about  a  good  deal,  but 
'most  alius  come  along  in  April  somewher's," 

"  April !  There  ain't  no  apple-tree  bears 
that  time  o'  year,"  said  the  old  man. 

"Mebbe  this  kind  keeps  over  till  April 
better  'n  t'others,"  suggested  Joe, 

"  No,"  said  Jonathan  ;  "  they  don't  keep 
good  anyway.  Fac'  is,  they  ain't  good  for 
much,  them  Neester  apples,  'tany  rate  late 
years.  The  leaves  was  all  eat  up  this  year 
an'  last  by  caterpillars,  an'  the  fruit  wasn't 
much  but  windfalls,  an'  I  left  'em  on  the 
ground  ;  didn't  pay  to  gether  'em." 

Many  and  long  were  the  conversations 
held  upon  this  theme  by  the  odd  pair  of 
friends.  Their  world  was  very  small,  and 
this  question  of  the  Neester  apple's  origin, 
so  trivial  to  us,  assumed  vast  proportions. 
Little  Joe  found  much  about  Easter  in  his 
books,  now  that  he  looked  for  it,  and  he 
asked  many  questions  of  the  minister  and 
others  well  informed  on  the  subject.  But 
nothing  helped  him  to  make  out  the  con- 
nection between  the  anniversary  and  the 
gnarled,  worm-infested  apple-tree.  At  last 
he  read  in  the  New  London  weekly  paper 
75 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

that  Easter  would  that  year  fall  upon  the 
2oth  of  April,  and  the  boy  looked  forward 
eagerly  to  the  day.  Somehow  he  would 
know  all  about  it  then,  he  thought ;  some- 
thing would  happen.  "  I  hope  'twill  be  nice 
weather,"  he  said,  "so  't  I  can  set  out  an' 
watch,  an'  I  b'lieve  I'll  find  out  the  reason 
o'  that  name." 

Apple  Jonathan  was  to  take  the  boy  home 
with  him  on  Saturday,  the  19th,  and  keep 
him  over  Sunday.  It  was  an  early  spring 
for  that  climate,  and  there  had  been  a  suc- 
cession of  soft,  warm  days,  with  the  sun  al- 
most hot  at  noontime,  though  the  nights 
were  still  cold.  It  was  warm  that  Saturday 
morning  as  Apple  Jonathan  and  Joe  Ricketts 
started  on  their  drive  out  to  the  old  man's 
home.  Joe  thought  it  was  too  warm,  took 
off  his  ragged  woollen  comforter,  and  said 
his  hands  and  cheeks  were  "  burnin'  up." 
And  surely  there  was  a  crimson  spot  on 
each  thin  cheek,  and  the  little  fingers  felt 
very  hot  when  Jonathan  touched  them. 
The  boy  was  strangely  excited,  for  they  two 
were  going  to  keep  Easter,  their  first,  under 
the  Neester  tree.  April  is  an  uncertain 
76 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

month,  particularly  so  in  New  England,  and 
before  they  reached  Jonathan's  house  the 
sky  had  clouded  and  a  cold  wind  had  come 
up.  And  when  the  old  man  lifted  the  boy 
down  he  was  blue  and  shivering. 

It  was  from  old  Jonathan  himself  that  I 
heard  the  story  of  that  Easter.  The  morn- 
ing dawned  sunshiny  and  fair,  and  the  pair 
of  friends  were  early  at  their  post.  There 
was  nothing  of  awakening  or  reviving  about 
the  Neester  apple-tree.  Some  of  the  early 
fruit  already  showed  small  pink  buds,  and 
there  were  leaves  of  tender  green  on  many 
trees.  But  Jubal  Miner's  tree  looked  brown 
and  dead.  They  sat  down  under  it,  and 
again  little  Joe  questioned  Apple  Jonathan, 
He  asked  him  about  the  blowth,  the  fruit, 
the  leaves,  and  finally  about  the  caterpillars 
that  devoured  the  foliage.  "  Oh,  they  was 
jest  these  pesky  little  things,"  the  old  man 
told  him,  "  that  spin  down  on  ye  by  a  thread, 
ye  know  ;  the  kind  that  go  along,  fust  their 
heads  an'  then  drorin'  up  their  tails,  hunch- 
in'  their  backs  up  every  time,  ye  know." 

"  Like  me,"  said  the  boy  ;  "  I've  seed  that 
sort  ;  alius  makes  me  feel 's  if  they  was  mock- 
77 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

in'  me  an'  my   way   o'   gettin'    along.     An' 
what  become  on  'em,  Uncle  Jonny  ?" 

"  What,  the  wu'ms,  sonny  ?  Why,  I  killed 
all  I  could  on  'em  ;  an*  the  rest — there,  now, 
they  was  suthin'  cur'us  about  that  !  I  forgot 
it  till  now.  I  see  some  on  'em  let  theirselves 
down  off  the  tree,  an'  then  what  d'ye  think 
come  on  'em  ?  Why,  they  dug  down  inter  the 
groun'like  a  mole,  an'  there  they  stayed." 

The  boy  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and 
looked  into  the  old  man's  face.  "  Buried 
theirselves  in  the  groun',''  he  said, "  an'  stayed 
there  !"  He  shivered.  "Wish  ye  hadn't  tole 
me  that,"  he  said  ;  "  that's  what  I'm  scared 
of." 

"  What,  of  bein'  buried,  sonny  ?  You  hadn't 
oughter  talk  that  way  ;  'tain't  good  for  little 
boys." 

"  Yes,"  in  a  low,  frightened  voice.     "  Aunt 

■  Viny  says  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  grow  up  ;  an' 

if  I  don't,  why,  that  means  I'm  goin'  to  be  put 

in  the  groun',  like  Jim  Fannin',  an'  it  scares 

me  so !" 

"  But,  bubby,  you  mustn't  think  o'  that  part. 
Don't  ye  rec'lect  what  I  told  ye  about  the 
risin'  an'  all  that  ?" 

78 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

"  I  know,"  sighs  the  boy  ;  "  but  I  can't  make 
it  out  real,  someways.  It  don't  seem  reas'na- 
ble,  does  it,  now,  that  you  put  me  down  in  the 
dirt  there,  a  draAved-up,  hunched-up  chap  like 
them  caterpillars  you  tell  on,  an'  spect  me  to 
come  out  ag'in,  an'  all  diflf'ent  an'  spry  an' 
flyin'  ; — it  don't,  does  it,  now.  Uncle  Jonny? 
Might  jest 's  well  think  as  how  them  hunchy 
wu'ms  that  went  down  an'  died  undergroun' 
there  was  goin'  to  come  back  ag'in."  As  he 
spoke,  the  boy,  still  leaning  on  one  elbow,  sift- 
ed through  the  fingers  of  his  other  hand  the 
earth,  lifting  and  letting  it  fall  idly.  In  doing 
this  he  uncovered  something  small  and  hard 
and  brown.  "  There,  that's  one  on  'em  now  !" 
he  said,  in  a  weary  tone  ;  "  all  dried  up  an' 
dead  's  a  nail,  jest's  I'll  be,  arter  a  spell."  He 
touched  it  with  his  finger.  Suddenly  his  face 
flushed  and  his  eyes  grew  bright.  "  Uncle 
Jonny,  quick  !  look  !  Suthin's  happin'  to  it ! 
Look  !  look  !"  Together  the  two  bent  over 
the  dry,  horny  thing.  And  something  did 
happen.  It  was  an  every-day,  common  thing, 
not  a  miracle.  We  do  not  believe  in  miracles 
in  these  days  when  we  know  so  much.  But 
it  was  a  strange  and  wonderful  thing  to  those 
79 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

simple  folk.  The  bursting  shell,  the  waking 
life,  the  spreading  wings,  the  flight — oh,  it  was 
a  glorious  Easter  lesson  ! 

And  when  I  saw,  only  a  few  days  later,  the 
rough,  strangely  shaped  coffin  that  held  the 
quiet  form  of  poor  Joe  Ricketts,  I  thought 
less  of  the  little  grave  just  dug  in  the  moist 
earth  of  the  grave-yard  than  of  the  waking  at 
another  Easter. 

"There  'tis,  ye  see,"  said  Apple  Jonathan, 
setting  down  his  wooden  peck  measure  while 
he  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  big  red  handker- 
chief ;  "  even  that  has  to  be  learnt  ye  by  ap- 
ples. Sin  an'  dyin'  come  in  by  'em,  ye  know, 
an'  it  looks  now  's  if  they  went  out  same  way. 
Never  made  that  little  feller  take  in  the  doc- 
trine o'  risin'  from  the  dead  till  we  come  to 
the  apple-tree  for 't.  I'm  dreffle  glad  he  got  a 
leetle  comfort  out  on  it ;  though  anyway  he'd 
'a'  found  it  all  out  pooty  soon,  where  he's 
gone.  But  I  kinder  miss  him,  an'  even  ap- 
ples don't  seem  to  help  me  's  much  's  you'd 
think." 

What  mattered  it  that  I  learned  long  after 
from  Elder  Browning  the  true  origin  of  the 
name  old  Jubal  Miner  had  given  his  seed- 
80 


APPLE    JONATHAN 

ling  apple,  and  that  he  had  called  it  after  his 
dead  sweetheart,  Esther  Swan,  for  whose  sake 
he  had  lived  solitary  all  his  days  ?  The  les- 
son was  the  same,  and  so  was  the  comfort  it 
brought  to  one  poor  little  crawling,  hunchy, 
human  earthworm. 


ANNA  MALANN 


ANNA   MALANN 


A  GROUP  of  boys  ranging  in  age  from  six 
to  twelve,  a  small  dog  in  the  midst  held 
tightly,  while  five  little  heads,  brown,  black, 
flaxen,  and  fiery  red,  all  bent  closely  over  the 
animal;  a  river  conveniently  near  —  what 
wonder  that  I  thought  I  understood  the 
scene !  I  had  looked  upon  so  many  such, 
the  surroundings,  the  actors,  the  little  vic- 
tim, almost  identical.  I  love  dogs,  I  am  very 
fond  of  boys,  but  somehow  I  do  not  always 
enjoy  seeing  the  two  classes  together.  It 
was  a  hot  still  day  in  August.  We  were 
driving  down  from  the  mountains  towards 
our  home  in  southern  New  England,  not  by 
the  direct  and  shortest  route,  but  by  a  wan- 
dering, circuitous  way,  changing  our  plans 
from  day  to  day,  to  suit  our  own  or  our 
horses'  tastes  or  convenience.  A  rambling, 
85 


ANNA   MALANN 

lazy,  hot  -  weather  sort  of  journey  it  was. 
We  had  spent  the  last  night  at  Morris,  and 
were  now  going  to  Thacherville,  some  fifteen 
miles  away.  Our  road  was  a  pleasant  one, 
along  the  bank  of  Wild  River.  St.  -  John's- 
wort,  wild  sunflowers,  black-eyed-susans,  the 
earliest  goldenrod,  and  all  the  yellow  and 
orange  blossoms  with  which  August  shines 
and  flames,  grew  along  our  way.  Sometimes 
the  vivid  red  of  the  cardinal-flower  flashed 
upon  our  sight,  and  asters  of  every  tint,  from 
white  to  deepest  blue  and  purple,  starred  the 
roadside.  I  was  very  comfortable,  lying  idly 
back  in  the  carriage,  and  looking  out  at  the 
birds  and  flowers  and  butterflies,  and  did  not 
care  to  move.  But  the  little  group  attracted 
my  notice,  and  I  called  a  halt.  Stepping  from 
the  carriage,  I  walked  towards  the  boys,  ready 
with  the  appeal  I  had  so  often  made  in  behalf 
of  my  dumb  favorites.  They  were  so  absorbed 
that  at  first  they  took  no  notice  of  my  ap- 
proach. But  in  brushing  through  some  tall 
plants  a  cracking  twig  or  stem  roused  them, 
and  one  or  two,  turning,  held  up  warning 
fingers  or  shook  their  heads  to  express  disap- 
proval of  my  coming  nearer.  Fired  with 
86 


ANNA    MALANN 

missionary  zeal,  I  kept  on  my  course  and 
walked  quickly  towards  them.  Suddenly 
one  of  the  group,  a  brown-faced,  barefooted 
little  chap,  some  ten  years  old,  started  on 
tiptoe  to  meet  me.  He  did  not  speak  till 
quite  close,  and  then  it  was  in  a  whisper. 
"Please  don't  come  any  nigher,  lady,"  he 
said  ;  "  you'll  frighten  him." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  cried.  "What 
are  you  doing  to  that  dog?  Tell  me  this 
instant." 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't  speak  so  loud  !"  he  said, 
still  in  that  same  whisper,  while  again  from 
others  of  the  group  came  those  silent  signals 
of  warning  and  disapproval ;  "  he's  dreadful 
bad,  an' " — with  a  quaver  in  the  low  voice — 
"we  think  he's  a-dyin'." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  look  in  the 
boy's  misty  eyes  and  the  tremble  in  the 
tones.  I  lowered  my  voice  in  sympathetic 
comprehension,  and  only  saying,  "  Let  me 
come  ;  I  won't  disturb  him,"  I  stepped  softly 
towards  the  little  company.  I  had  thought 
I  might  be  of  use,  knowing  a  good  deal  of 
animals  and  their  ailments,  but  at  a  glance 
I  saw  it  was  too  late.  The  fast-glazing  eyes, 
87 


ANNA    MALANN 

though  still  looking  up  with  a  pathetic  at- 
tempt to  express  appreciation  of  the  fond 
care  shown  him  by  his  young  friends,  the 
convulsive  twitching  of  the  little  form, 
showed  he  was,  as  my  guide  had  said, 
"a-dyin',"  So  I  was  still  and  silent,  for  I 
was  not  needed.  Doggie  lacked  nothing ; 
love,  sympathy,  sorrow,  tender  care,  they 
were  his  in  abundance. 

He  was  not  a  pretty  dog  nor  of  high  line- 
age. He  was  a  mongrel,  of  yellow  and  white, 
a  thin,  bony,  ugly  little  fellow.  But  no  dog 
of  song  or  story  ever  had  truer  friends.  He 
lay  across  the  knees  of  one  of  the  boys,  while 
the  others  knelt  or  crouched  or  stood  around, 
and  all  watched  silently  and  sadly  the  pass- 
ing of  the — soul  ?  Or  shall  we  call  it  instinct  ? 
It  was  life,  at  any  rate,  and  it  was  fast  going 
out.  It  was  soon  over,  and  very  quietly. 
The  faintest  movement  of  the  poor  stump  of 
a  tail — a  pitiful  attempt  at  a  wag,  poor  beastie 
— as  the  youngest  mourner,  a  mite  of  a  fel- 
low, touched  with  tiny  brown  fingers  the 
rough  coat  of  the  sufferer,  and  all  was 
ended. 

As  I  looked  about  upon  the  sorry  little 
88 


ANNA    MALANN 

faces,  the  wet  eyes,  the  quivering  lips,  I  felt 
I  must  be  dreaming.  Was  this  a  real  dog, 
and  were  these  boys?  The  little  fellow 
whose  knees  had  made  the  dying  -  bed  for 
the  animal  did  not  at  once  rise  or  move, 
though  he  must  have  been  stiff  and  aching 
from  the  constrained  position  in  which  for 
an  hour  he  had  been  obliged  to  sit.  As  we 
lifted  the  limp  little  form  from  his  lap,  I 
asked  him  if  the  dog  was  his  own. 

"Oh  no,  ma'am,"  he  replied;  "he's  a 
stranger  to  all  of  us.  Johnny  —  that's  my 
brother  there — found  him  layin'  in  the  road 
back  a  little  way.  I  guess  he'd  been  run 
over,  an'  he  was  real  bad.  So  we  fetched 
him  here,  an'  was  goin'  to  carry  him  down 
to  the  Gore,  but  we  see  he  was  a-dyin*  fast, 
and  we  didn't  take  him." 

"  To  the  Gore  ?"  I  said.     "  What's  that  ?" 

The  boy  looked  puzzled.  "  Why,  the  Gore," 
he  said  again.  "  We  allers  take  'em  there,  you 
know." 

"I'm  a  stranger  here,"  I  explained,  "and 
do  not  understand.  Is  it  the  name  of  a 
place  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  'm,  I  thought  you  knowed.    Wil- 
89 


ANNA    MALANN 

son's  Gore,  they  call  it,  'bout  half  a  mile  from 
here,  out  that  way.  There's  jest  nine  families 
live  in  it,  that's  all.  We're  all  Gore  boys,  us 
here ;  our  folks  live  there ;  an'  so  o'  course 
we  knowed  where  to  fetch  the  poor  dog." 

Then  turning  to  the  rest,  he  added,  "  But 
she  can't  do  him  no  good  now.  Anyway,  I 
s'pose  we'd  better  take  him  over  to  her  an' 
see  what  she  says  'bout  buryin*  him."  All 
signified  approval,  and  I  was  more  than  ever 
puzzled. 

"  Does  the  dog  belong  to  some  one  at  the 
Gore  ?"  I  asked,  but  was  again  met  with  the 
assurance  that  he  was  a  stranger,  and  noth- 
ing was  known  of  his  home  or  folks,  "  But 
why  do  you  take  him  to  the  Gore,  then?" 
said  I. 

"  Why,  to  Anna  Malann,  o'  course,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  Yes,"  said  another  little  chap,  "  we  allers 
fetch  'em  to  Anna  Malann,  even  when  they're 
dead." 

By  this  time  my  friends  in  the  carriage 
were  growing  weary  of  the  long  delay,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  rejoin  them  hastily. 

But  I  was  determined  to  know  more  of 
90 


ANNA    MALANN 

this  mysterious  Gore,  and  of  Anna  Malann 
herself.  At  the  inn  a  little  farther  on  we 
made  inquiries  and  obtained  some  informa- 
tion on  the  subject.  Wilson's  Gore  was  one 
of  those  bits  of  land,  occasionally  found  even 
now  in  New  England,  which  were  left  between 
the  boundary-lines  of  different  land  grants, 
and  sometimes  failed  to  be  included  in  town- 
ships. 

In  this  little  spot  lived  nine  families,  as  I 
had  been  told  by  the  boys.  And  through  the 
example  or  influence  of  one  Anna  Malann, 
an  old  woman  in  the  place,  every  one  there 
seemed  to  treat  dumb  creatures  with  strange 
consideration.  About  this  matter  the  land- 
lord said  little,  but  advised  me  to  go  and  see 
for  myself.  "  She'll  like  to  see  ye,"  he  said, 
"partic'lar  if  you  like  creatur's.  An'  it's 
dreadful  amusin'  to  hear  her  talk." 

Of  course  I  went.  I  do  like  "creatur's," 
and  my  curiosity  and  interest  were  strangely 
excited  by  what  I  had  seen  and  heard  con- 
cerning Anna  Malann  and  her  missionary 
work. 

I  had  not  far  to  go.  The  inn  itself  was  in 
Thacherville,  but  the  boundary-line  between 
91 


ANNA    MALANN 

that  village  and  Wilson's  Gore  was  but  half 
a  mile  beyond.  And  the  Gore  once  reached, 
the  house  I  sought  was  easily  recognized 
from  the  description  of  my  landlord :  "A  lit- 
tle house  that  looks  as  if  folks  was  movin'  or 
cleanin'  house,  and  sounds  like  a  menagerie." 
I  knew  it  at  once  by  sight  and  hearing 
both — a  small  house  surrounded  apparently 
by  rubbish  —  boxes,  barrels,  tin  cans,  crates, 
baskets,  scattered  about  in  confusion.  And 
out  upon  the  warm,  soft  air  floated  strange 
sounds  —  whines,  mews,  barks,  whinnies, 
chirps,  squeaks,  duckings,  chatterings.  Yes, 
this  surely  was  the  abode  of  my  home  mis- 
sionary. The  door  was  open,  and  just  within 
it  stood  a  thin,  pale  little  woman  stirring 
with  an  iron  spoon  some  mixture  in  a  tin 
pan.  As  I  approached  she  looked  up,  and  I 
saw  that  she  had  soft  brown  eyes,  with  a  cer- 
tain wistful,  gentle  look  often  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  an  animal,  especially  an  intelligent, 
affectionate  dog.  You  may  think  this  fanci- 
ful ;  perhaps  it  is.  Perhaps  I  was  uncon- 
sciously influenced  to  make  this  comparison 
by  what  I  had  heard  of  the  woman's  tastes 
and  characteristics.  But  this  I  know,  that 
92 


ANNA    MALANN 

since  I  first  saw  her  I  can  never  look  into 
the  true  eyes  of  my  brave  dog  Larry  with- 
out a  quick  memory  of  Anna  Malann  and 
her  gentle  face. 

"  Miss  Malann  ?"  I  said,  inquiringly,  as 
her  eyes  met  mine  and  then  turned  quickly 
and  shyly  away,  making  them  more  than 
ever  like  Larry's,  so  averse  to  meeting  a  pro- 
longed human  gaze. 

"  No,  ma'am  ;  my  name's  Ellis — Ann  El- 
lis.   Won't  you  walk  in  ?" 

"  Why,"  I  said,  somewhat  puzzled,  "  I 
thought  Miss  Malann  lived  here.  Miss  Anna 
Malann  the  boys  called  her." 

She  interrupted  me  with  a  smile.  "Oh, 
the  boys  !  Well,  I  guess  they  said  Animal 
Ann  ;  that's  what  they  call  me,  'cause  of  my 
setting  more  'n  most  folks  by  creatur's  Don't 
wonder  you  didn't  get  it  straight,  not  know- 
ing about  my  queer  ways  and  all.  But  come 
in,  come  in." 

Animal  Ann  !  Why,  of  course  it  was  plain 
enough  now  when  explained,  and  I  looked 
with  fresh  wonder  and  reverence  upon  one 
whose  very  bearing  of  the  title  seemed  to 
give  her  a  sort  of  canonization. 
93 


ANNA    MALANN 

I  want  to  tell  you  as  simply  and  truly  as 
possible  the  story  of  this  woman,  I  shall  try 
to  quote  her  own  words  in  what  she  herself 
told  me,  and  to  describe  without  exaggera- 
tion or  sentimentality  what  I  saw  of  her  life 
and  work.  I  use  the  word  "story,"  but  in 
one  way  there  is  to  be  no  story.  This  is  a 
mere  descriptive  sketch.  There  is  no  plot, 
little  incident,  and  no  denouement.  For, 
thank  God  !  the  life  is  still  being  lived  and 
the  quiet,  unobtrusive  work  going  on  in,  and 
farther  and  farther  beyond,  the  tiny  hamlet 
of  Wilson's  Gore. 

I  hardly  know  where  or  how  to  begin. 
But  perhaps  I  had  best  tell  first  one  little  in- 
cident which  seems  to  mark  the  key-note  of 
the  whole  tale. 

As  we  were  walking  out  that  first  day 
among  the  boxes,  barrels,  and  baskets  which 
proved  to  be  the  humble  dwelling-places  of 
Animal  Ann's  favorites,  I  said  : 

"Why,  how  many  animals  have  you 
here?" 

She  turned  quickly  towards  me,  her  finger 
uplifted  with  a  "  Hush-h-h  !"  of  warning.  As 
I  stared  in  perplexity  she  whispered  in  my 
94 


ANNA    MALANN 

ear,  "  They  don't  know  they're  animals ;  they 
think  they're  just  folks." 

And  that  gives  one  a  pretty  good  notion 
of  her  ideas  and  her  mode  of  treatment.  I 
shall  let  her  speak  for  herself  now.  She  told 
me  the  story  then,  and  I  wrote  it  down  di- 
rectly afterwards,  while  the  words  were  fresh 
in  my  mind.  And  many  times  since  then  I 
have  heard  her  tell  it  to  others.  For  the 
friendship  begun  that  day  has  lasted  and 
grown,  and  again  and  again,  as  the  summer 
comes,  I  find  my  way  to  Wilson's  Gore  and 
the  little  home  of  Animal  Ann. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  how  it  come  about, 
my  taking  to  dumb  creatur's,  as  they  call 
them — though  I  must  say  I  never  see  one 
that  was  anyways  dumb  myself.  I  lived 
over  to  Danvers,  in  the  east  part  of  the 
State,  you  know.  Pa  was  a  real  good  man, 
kind  to  his  folks,  a  church-member,  and  one 
of  the  select-men  of  the  borough.  He  was 
brought  up  in  the  strict  up-and-down  old- 
fashioned  way  as  to  religion,  and  had  some 
pretty  hard  notions  about  some  things.  He 
had  a  good  deal  of  stock — horses  and  cows 
and  oxen  and  so  on — and  he  took  good  care 
95 


ANNA    MALANN 

of  them,  gave  them  plenty  of  food  and  drink 
and  good  sleeping-quarters,  and  never  beat 
them,  or  let  his  hired  men  do  it.  But  he  had 
views  about  animals  that  he'd  picked  up 
from  his  father  before  him,  and  from  old 
Mr.  Luther,  his  minister.  I  supposed  they 
was  all  right,  'cause  pa  held  them,  but  even 
when  I  was  a  mite  of  a  girl  they  struck  me 
as  queer  and  sort  of  ha'sh.  He  was  good  to 
his  stock,  as  I  said  before,  but  he  insisted 
that  was  only  just  because  they  was  useful  to 
him  and  he  wanted  to  keep  them  that  way. 
He  was  kind  to  Leo,  the  collie-dog,  but  he 
said  that  was  because  he  was  so  handy  about 
driving  the  cows  and  finding  the  sheep,  and 
he  couldn't  spare  him.  He  was  dreadful 
good  to  the  cats,  but,  according  to  him,  that 
was  because  of  their  catching  the  rats  and 
mice.  But  he  was  pleasant  to  the  squirrels 
too,  and  the  robins,  and  the  brown  thrashers 
— fed  them  and  all — and  he  couldn't  give  no 
other  reason  for  that  than  this  —  that  he 
wanted  to.  '  But,'  says  he,  '  animals  haven't 
got  no  rights  ;  that's  a  well-known  fact.  The 
Bible  don't  give  them  any  ;  the  Church  don't 
give  them  any  ;  the  catechism  don't  give 
96 


ANNA    MALANN 

them  any.  If  I'm  made  so  soft  like  and  ner- 
vous myself  that  I  can't  see  a  creatur'  hurt  or 
abused  without  its  making  me  uncomfortable 
and  fidgety,  why,  that's  my  lookout.  It  don't 
go  to  show  I'd  ought  to  feel  that  way.  I 
tell  ye,  if  folks  go  to  preaching  that  kind  of 
doctrine,  that  creatur's  have  rights,  and  I'm 
bound  to  treat  them  as  well  as  I  do  folks, 
why,  I'll  just  turn  about  and  abuse  them, 
spite  of  my  creepy,  nervous  feeling  about 
it.  Same  rights  as  folks  ?  Why  didn't  God 
make  them  folks,  then  ?' 

"  So  he'd  go  on  and  over  with  such  talk, 
and  I'd  listen  and  bother  my  poor  little  head 
trying  to  make  it  sound  right  and  reasonable. 
'  Why  ain't  they  folks,  anyway  ?'  I  says  to 
myself.  '  What  makes  the  difference  ?  They 
act  like  folks  :  they're  good  or  they're  bad  ; 
they're  lazy  or  industrious  ;  they're  noisy  or 
quiet,  pleasant  or  ugly,  selfish  or  free-handed, 
peaceable  or  snarly.  In  short,  they've  got 
ways.  There's  no  two  creatur's  just  alike,  no 
more  than  there  is  folks.  They  take  sick  like 
folks,  too,  and  they  don't  like  to  suffer  no 
more'n  folks  do ;  and,  come  to  the  last,  they 
die  like  folks.  And  why  does  pa  put  them 
G  97 


ANNA    MALANN 

all  together,  and  say  none  of  them  haven't 
got  any  rights  ?' 

"  Sometimes  I'd  ask  ma — I  didn't  quite  dast 
to  ask  pa  ;  children  didn't  use  to  talk  so  free 
to  their  fathers  as  they  do  these  times — I'd 
ask  ma  why  animals  wasn't  folks,  anyway. 
And  she'd  tell  me  'twas  'cause  of  their  not 
having  souls  —  immortal  souls.  At  first  I 
used  to  go  on  and  ask  how  folks  knew  creat- 
ur's  hadn't  got  immortal  souls,  but  she  shut 
me  up  directly  about  that,  and  showed  me 
right  off  that  that  was  given  up  to  by  every- 
body— 'twas  one  of  the  doctrines,  and  wasn't 
to  be  argued  over  ;  'twas  settled  for  good  an' 
all.  So  I  never  brought  up  that  part  again. 
But  I'd  bother  and  pester  ma  to  know  why, 
anyway — even  agreeing  'twas  that  way — they 
wasn't  folks  just  the  same,  and  all  the  more 
to  be  pitied  and  done  good  to  and  made  much 
of  because  they  didn't  have  everything  we 
had — souls  and  all  them  things.  So  when- 
ever I  got  the  chance  I'd  treat  them  that 
way,  and  try  to  make  other  people  do  it.  But 
I  couldn't  make  much  headway.  I  had  two 
brothers  and  one  sister,  and  they  all  followed 
pa  and  ma's  lead,  and  didn't  worry  them- 
98 


ANNA    MALANN 

selves  about  the  '  lower  beings,'  as  pa  called 
them.  Bime-by  pa  died,  and  a  spell  after- 
wards ma  went  too.  And  we  four  children 
had  the  farm  and  stock  and  all  to  divide  even. 
Well,  maybe  'twas  foolish,  but  I'd  been  think- 
ing and  bothering  my  head  so  long  about  an- 
imals and  the  awful  things  that  was  always 
being  done  to  them,  I  couldn't  get  on  any 
other  track.  I  suppose  I  took  after  pa  in 
being  soft  and  nervous  about  such  things, 
and  seemed  to  me  there  wasn't  a  minute  of 
the  whole  living  day  that  there  wasn't  some- 
thing cruel  and  unjust  and  dreadful  done  to 
poor  helpless  creatur's  even  right  around 
me  ;  and  what  must  it  be,  take  the  whole 
world  over  ?  I  says.  I  was  nigh  about  crazy, 
and  I'd  seem  to  hear  such  a  noise  of  whips 
swishing  and  sticks  pounding  and  kicks 
sounding  hollow  against  creatur's'  sides,  and 
then  a  whining  and  moaning  and  whimper- 
ing and  crying  out  of  the  beings  folks  calls 
dumb,  and  my  ears  ached  and  buzzed  all  the 
blessed  time.  I  couldn't  stand  it  anyhow.  I 
was  always  a  meddler  and  fusser,  different 
from  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  I'd  got  to  have  a  finger  in  this 
99 


ANNA    MALANN 

pie.  I  talked  to  Mary,  my  sister,  and  to  Elam 
and  John,  and  tried  to  explain  my  views.  I 
wanted — well,  I  don't  believe  I  had  any  real 
settled  plan  laid  out,  and  I  don't  wonder 
now  they  thought  I'd  gone  clean  out  of  my 
wits.  But  I  tried  to  get  them  to  let  me  try 
what  I  could  do  on  the  farm  and  in  Danvers 
generally  to  make  creatur's  more  comfortable 
and  get  people  not  to  put  upon  them  so.  But, 
my  !  they  got  dreadful  worked  up  over  it. 
You  see,  the  Ellises  had  always  been  a  re- 
spectable, quiet,  contented  kind  of  family, 
holding  the  same  ideas  from  generation  to 
generation,  with  nothing  upsetting  in  their 
religion  or  politics  or  schooling.  They'd  all 
thought  alike  for  a  hundred  years  or  more, 
and  they  boasted  there'd  never  been  a  schis- 
matic or  a  heretic  or  a  turncoat  of  any  sort 
in  the  whole  tribe.  And  now  to  see  an  Ellis, 
and  a  female  one,  too,  set  up  for  a  stirrer-up 
and  overthrower,  a  sort  of  a  horse-doctor  and 
dog-missionary  mixed  up,  why,  they  wouldn't 
have  it.  We  had  words,  and,  to  make  a  long 
story  short,  we  settled  it  this  way  :  I  was  a 
sort  of  a  mean-spirited,  easy-going,  anything- 
for-peace  woman  myself,  and  so  I  just  told 

lOO 


ANNA    MALANN 

them  I'd  give  up  every  bit  of  my  share  of  the 
old  farm  to  them  three  for  nothing,  and  go 
off  somewhere  to  try  my  plan.  And  they 
agreed  to  that,  and  let  me  go. 

"  Then  I  begun  to  look  about  to  find  the 
right  kind  of  place.  I  wanted  to  see  if  there 
was  such  a  thing  as  bringing  over  a  whole 
community  to  my  way  of  thinking.  If  I 
could  be  the  means  of  getting  everybody 
in  just  one  town  or  village  to  try  treating 
animals  as  if  they  was  folks,  why — well,  'twas 
something  to  live  for,  anyway.  I  considered 
and  considered,  and  bime-by  this  notion  came 
to  me :  I  must  find  a  small  enough  place  so  's 
I  could  work  it  all  up  before  I  died  ;  the 
Ellises  ain't  a  long-lived  family,  and  I  wanted 
dreadful  bad  to  see  the  whole  thing  done  in 
my  lifetime.  '  Why,'  I  says  to  myself,  *  it 
would  be  almost  like  a  little  millennium  of 
my  own.'  Then  I  heard  one  day  about  Wil- 
son's Gore,  and  it  appeared  to  me  just  what 
I  wanted.  Six  families  in  all — that's  what 
there  was  then — and  not  very  big  ones  neither, 
I  had  a  little  money  besides  my  share  of  the 
farm  I'd  give  up — some  left  me  by  the  Aunt 
Ann  I  was  named  after,  so  I'd  got  something 

lOX 


ANNA    MALANN 

to  start  with.     And  here  I  come,  and  here 
I  be. 

"  It's  a  good  many  years  now,  for  'twas 
dreadful  slow  work.  But  it's  done.  Every 
single  one  of  the  Gore  families — and,  as  I  said 
before,  there's  nine  now — has  come  over  to 
my  way  of  thinking,  and  yet  I  ain't  reached 
the  average  Ellis  limit  of  age  yet.  So  I've 
got  my  little  millennium,  you  see.  But  I 
must  tell  the  whole  truth  and  own  up  to  one 
thing.  I  don't  believe  I've  had  much  to  do 
with  it,  after  all.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  be- 
lieve the  Gore  folks  would  have  come  to  the 
same  p'int  if  I  hadn't  been  here  at  all.  For 
I've  never  preached  about  it  or  scolded  and 
fretted  at  them  or  anything.  They  must 
have  had  a  leaning  that  way  themselves,  and 
found  it  all  out  without  my  help.  Sometimes 
I  wish  I'd  'a'  taken  a  harder  place,  with  cruder 
folks  in  it ;  there'd  have  been  more  credit  in 
that.  For  I've  had  an  easy,  comfortable  time 
of  it,  after  all,  doing  for  the  dogs  and  horses 
and  cats  that  was  sick  or  hurt  or  old  or  lost 
or  left  out  some  way.  You  see,  I  like  them, 
and  so  it's  dreadful  interesting.  And  I  like 
showing  them   to   folks,  too,  particular   the 


ANNA    MALANN 

boys  and  girls.  And  they'll  spend  hours  at  a 
time  watching  me  take  care  of  them  and 
talk  to  them  and  treat  them  my  way.  But 
as  for  preaching  at  them  about  it,  or  to  their 
fathers  and  mothers,  I  hadn't  got  time  for  it. 
But  there  ain't  a  man  or  woman  or  a  boy  or 
girl  now  in  the  Gore  that  would  do  a  cruel 
thing  to  a  horse  or  a  dog  or  a  cow  or  an  ox 
or  any  four-footed  thing  ;  and,  what's  more, 
they  wouldn't  stone  a  bird  or  break  up  a  nest 
— and  children  do  like  that  kind  of  thing, 
you  know ;  and  there  even  appears  to  be  a 
feeling  among  the  babies  themselves  against 
pulling  off  flies'  wings  and  squeezing  them 
to  hear  them  buzz,  and  little  amusements  like 
that.  They're  terrible  good  children  by  nat- 
ur',  you  see,  and  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  move. 
There  ain't  no  satisfyin'  field  for  real  mis- 
sionary work  here." 

Before  this  little  autobiography  was  ended 
we  were  walking  out  among  the  "  creatur's," 
and  I  had  many  an  object-lesson  to  illustrate 
Ann  Ellis's  mode  of  treating  her  friends. 

Such  odd  friends  they  were,  but  I  would 
not  wish  for  truer,  more  loyal  ones.  Dumb  ! 
Why,  every  soft  wistful  eye,  each  pricked-up 
103 


ANNA    MALANN 

silky  ear,  each  tail  that  wagged  or  thumped 
the  ground  at  the  sound  of  her  gentle  foot- 
fall, each  pawing  eager  hoof  and  quivering 
dilated  nostril,  spoke  clearly,  sharply,  out  of 
love  and  trust  and  willingness  to  serve.  Here 
in  the  little  pasture-lot  grazed  a  blind  horse; 
there,  a  little  away,  an  old  and  grizzled  one, 
passing  his  last  days — his  happiest  ones,  poor 
fellow ! — in  peace  and  comfort.  There  were 
dogs  with  bandaged,  splintered  legs,  dogs  that 
were  hurt  or  ill,  lying  on  soft  beds  in  basket, 
box,  or  barrel.  And  there  were  well,  active 
animals,  dogs  and  cats,  and  others  too.  Some 
were  waiting  to  be  claimed  by  owners  from 
whom  they  had  strayed  away.  Others  had 
been  wilfully  deserted,  and  had  no  home  but 
this.  There  was  a  lame  hen  hobbling  about 
on  an  awkward  wooden  leg ;  there  was  a 
blind  canary  in  a  rough  home  -  made  cage, 
singing  his  little  heart  out  as  he  heard  the 
voice  of  the  one  he  had  never  seen,  but  loved. 
It  was,  as  the  landlord  had  said,  "  dreadful 
amusin'  "  to  hear  Animal  Ann  talk,  but  it  was 
more.  There  was  to  me  something  strangely 
pathetic,  touching,  in  the  way  she  spoke  of 
and  to  these  creatures.  Certainly  there  was 
104 


ANNA    MALANN 

in  her  words  or  tones  or  looks  nothing  that 
could  hint  to  these  friends  of  hers  that  she 
thought  them  anything  but  "  folks." 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  talk  French  ?"  she 
asked,  suddenly,  one  day.  As  I  owned  to 
some  knowledge  of  the  language,  she  said : 
"Oh,  I'm  real  glad.  You  see,  the  children 
come  over  one  day  last  month  to  tell  me  that 
the  old  monsheer,  as  they  called  him  round 
here — him  that  used  to  learn  the  young  folks 
to  dance  over  in  Danvers — was  dead,  and  he'd 
left  a  dog  unprovided  for.  The  town  had 
buried  the  old  man,  and  the  poor  little  creat- 
ur'  was  crying  herself  to  death  over  the  grave. 
I  went  over  with  them,  and  we  fetched  her 
away,  dreadful  unwilling,  but  too  weak  from 
mourning  and  going  without  victuals  and 
sleep  to  make  much  fuss.  I've  brought  lots 
of  sorrowing  young  things  through  their 
troubles,  homesickness  and  lonesomeness  and 
disappointment  and  grief,  but  I  never  had  a 
worse  case  than  this.  'Twas  a  poodle  ;  Fan 
Shong  the  old  man  used  to  call  her  ;  sounds 
kind  of  Chinee,  don't  it,  now  ?  And  she  was 
the  miserablest  being !  She  wouldn't  make 
friends,  she  was  scary  and  terrible  bashful, 
105 


ANNA    MALANN 

and  she  just  about  cried  her  eyes  out  after 
that  old  master  of  hers — an  outlandish,  snuff- 
taking,  fretful  little  man  to  most  folks,  but  the 
best  and  dearest  in  the  world  to  Fan  Shong. 
I  tried  hard  to  help  her,  to  make  her  feel  at 
home,  and  show  her  there  was  something  to 
live  for  still,  but  she  didn't  take  any  notice. 
I'd  make  a  good  deal  of  her,  praise  her  up, 
and  call  her  '  good  dog,  good  dog,'  but  she 
didn't  appear  to  care.  And  then  bime-by  it 
struck  me  she  didn't  understand ;  she  was 
French,  and  'good  dog'  was  no  more  than 
foreign  talk  to  her.  Of  course  I  had  to  do 
something  about  it  or  she'd  'a'  died  on  my 
hands.  I  inquired  about,  and  found  there 
was  a  lady  over  in  East  Thacherville,  about 
four  miles  from  here,  that  knew  some  French 
— used  to  learn  it  to  children  in  the  academy. 
So  I  went  over  there.  'Twas  a  real  hot  day 
in  July,  and  there'd  been  quite  a  spell  of  dry 
weather,  and  'twas  terrible  dusty.  I'd  been 
up  all  the  night  before  with  Charley,  the  old 
white  horse  there,  and  didn't  feel  very  rugged 
that  day,  and  I  thought  I'd  never  get  there. 
But  I  found  Miss  Edwards,  and  she  was  real 
good,  took  quite  an  interest,  and  she  learnt 
1 06 


ANNA    MALANN 

me  to  say  'good  dog'  in  French  —  'bong 
shang,'  you  know.  I  practised  it  over  and 
over  till  I  said  it  real  good,  and  then  I  started 
home.  Well,  will  you  believe,  time  I  got 
there  it  had  gone  clean  out  of  my  head.  You 
see,  I'd  got  it  mixed  up  with  the  poor  dog's 
Chinee  name,  Fan  Shong,  and  for  the  life  of 
me  I  couldn't  say  it  right.  So  back  I  had 
to  go  through  that  dust  and  all  and  learn 
it  again.  But  my  !  it  paid,  for  she  was  so 
pleased  when  I  told  her  she  was  a  'bong 
shang,'  just  as  her  old  master  done  it.  She's 
bashful  yet,  though,  and  lonesome,  and  she'd 
admire  to  hear  her  native  language." 

You  may  be  sure  I  aired  my  best  Parisian 
French  for  the  benefit  of  the  homesick  for- 
eigner, greatly  to  the  delight  of  my  good  old 
friend.  Noting  how  careful  she  was  lest  any 
word  of  ours  should  hurt  the  feelings  of  her 
proteges,  I  asked  her  if  she  thought  they  un- 
derstood what  was  said. 

"  Well,  I  don't  really  know,"  she  answered  ; 
"  and  so  I  go  on  the  plan  of  acting  as  if  they 
did.  It  don't  do  any  harm,  you  see  ;  and  just 
supposing  they  do  know  our  language,  why, 
they'd  be  dreadful  cut  up  sometimes.  So  I 
107 


ANNA    MALANN 

act  as  I  do  with  folks,  and  mind  my  words 
when  they're  around." 

It  was  a  good  while  before  I  became  used 
to  this  peculiarity  of  the  old  woman,  and  I 
was  puzzled  and  startled  again  and  again  by 
a  warning  word,  look,  or  gesture  when  about 
to  speak  freely  of  those  about  us.  *'  That 
looks  like  a  good  hunting-dog,"  I  said  one 
day,  pointing  out  a  fine  Irish  setter  near  by. 
A  significant  look  from  Ann,  a  loudly  spoken 
"Ain't  he  a  nice  dog?  Yes,  Jack's  a  good 
dog  "  — which  words  set  the  silky  tail  of  golden- 
brown  waving  like  a  banner — and  then  the 
old  woman  whispered  in  my  ear  :  "  He's  gun- 
shy,  poor  fellow.  He  can't  help  it ;  it's  born 
in  him.  He's  tried  and  tried,  but  he  says  he 
can't  stand  it.  Just  the  very  sight  of  a  gun 
of  any  sort,  loaded  or  not,  scares  him  to  death. 
That's  how  I  got  him.  Jim  Merrill  had  him, 
and  was  bound  to  train  that  trick  out  of  him. 
He  beat  him  till  he  'most  killed  him,  but  it 
only  made  him  worse.  And  so  I  bought 
him." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  confusion  and 
shame  which  overwhelmed  me  one  day  at  a 
reproof — a  pretty  sharp  one — from  the  good 
io8 


ANNA    MALANN 

old  philanthropist.  Peering  out  at  us  from 
behind  a  shed  was  the  oddest  creature.  It 
was  intended,  doubtless,  for  a  cat,  but  was 
such  a  caricature  of  one.  One  ear  stood 
sharply  erect,  the  other  lopped  limply  down  ; 
the  eyes,  because  of  an  injury  done  to  one  of 
them,  had  a  chronic  squint ;  and  there  was 
a  twist  upward  to  each  corner  of  the  wide 
mouth  that  suggested  the  grin  of  the  pro- 
verbial cat  of  Cheshire.  It  was  irresistible, 
and  I — laughed.  Animal  Ann  clutched  my 
arm.  *'  Stop  laughing,"  she  whispered,  sharp- 
ly; "or  if  you  can't  hold  it  in,  go  away."  I 
was  sobered  at  once.  *'  Poor  Jinny,"  said  the 
old  woman,  after  we  had  left  the  spot,  "  she's 
terrible  homely,  and  she  knows  it  as  well  as 
we  do.  Nobody  '11  have  her,  she  looks  so  bad. 
And  the  worst  of  it  is  she's  just  aching  to  be 
made  much  of  and  coddled.  There's  the  lov- 
ingest  heart  in  that  poor  outlandish-looking 
body.  She's  real  touchy  about  her  looks, 
particular  her  eyes — maybe  you  took  notice 
there's  a  mite  of  a  cast  in  them — and  I  do  all 
I  can  to  make  her  forget  about  it." 

The  good  woman  even  attributed  to  these 
animals  theological  creeds  of  their  own,  or 
109 


ANNA    MALANN 

rather,  perhaps,  adherence  to  those  of  the 
particular  sect  to  which  their  former  masters 
or  owners  belonged.  "  Don't  say  anything 
about  Jews,"  she  once  whispered,  as  we  drew 
near  the  rough  kennel  of  a  gaunt  yellow  cur  ; 
"  he  don't  know  any  other  religion  ;  he's  been 
with  them  all  his  days.  I  took  him  after 
Miss  Levy  died.  He  set  everything  by  the 
family,  and  I  don't  want  him  to  think  we  dis- 
approve of  their  beliefs." 

"  I  suppose  I  need  not  ask  you,"  I  said,  one 
day,  "  with  your  views  of  animals  and  their 
being  like  folks,  if  you  think  there's  a  future 
for  them  after  death  ?" 

To  my  surprise,  the  old  woman  shook  her 
head  sadly,  and  the  soft  brown  eyes  grew 
moist.  "No,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  mournful 
voice,  "  I'm  afraid  there's  no  chance  of  that, 
I've  give  it  up.  I  did  hold  to  it  as  long  as  I 
could,  and  it  'most  broke  my  heart  to  let  it  go. 
But  so  many  of  the  folks  I  look  up  to  tell  me 
it  isn't  so  that  I've  had  to  give  up  that  p'int. 
Even  Elder  Peters,  that's  so  fond  of  dogs  and 
horses  himself,  he  always  said  there  wasn't 
any  chance  of  meeting  them  anywhere  in  the 
next  world  ;  and  Dr.  Church  held  that  too ; 
no 


ANNA    MALANN 

and  good  old  Mis'  Holcombe,  that  left  money 
to  take  care  of  destitute  cats.  They  was  all 
one  way,  proved  it  from  the  Scriptures,  you 
know — '  like  the  beasts  that  perish,'  and  all 
that.  They  all  say  there  ain't  a  single  word 
in  the  Bible  that  gives  them  a  reasonable 
hope.  There's  most  everything  else  spoke  of 
as  being  there — folks  and  angels  and  martyrs 
and  saints  and  trees  and  flowers  and  fruit 
and  streams  and  precious  stones.  But  noth- 
ing about  creatur's,  except — well,  sometimes 
I  think  there's  a  chance  for  white  horses — 
just  a  chance." 

"  For  white  horses !"  I  exclaimed,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Yes;  in  Revelation,  speaking  about  heaven 
and  the  saints,  it  tells  about  their  being  dress- 
ed in  white  robes  and  riding  on  white  horses. 
But  there's  another — a  dreadful  verse  in  that 
book — I  never  like  to  think  of  it.  After  tell- 
ing all  the  beautiful  things  that's  inside  of 
heaven,  it  says, '  But  without  are  dogs.'  Now 
ain't  that  a  terrible  mournful  pictur'?  It's 
as  if  the  other  animals  all  give  up  when  they 
was  told  there  wasn't  any  place  for  them  up 
there,  and  just  died  for  good,  instincts  and  all 


ANNA    MALANN 

— if  you  don't  want  to  call  them  souls — but 
dogs,  why,  they  just  couldn't  do  it  ;  they 
must  follow  on  after  their  masters,  room  or 
no  room.  And  so  I  always  seem  to  see  them 
hanging  about  the  door,  waiting  and  waiting, 
getting  a  peek  in  when  it  opens  to  let  some- 
body go  inside,  and  maybe  catching  sight  of 
their  masters — oh  !  I  can't  stand  it,  anyhow. 
I  wish  it  wasn't  writ  there,  'Without  are 
dogs.'  " 

In  vain  I  tried  to  show  the  poor  woman 
that  the  dog  of  Revelation,  banished  from 
bliss  with  murderers,  idolaters,  and  others  of 
the  wicked,  was  not  one  of  her  four-footed 
friends.  She  had  looked  at  the  harrowing 
vision  too  long  to  be  able  to  banish  it  at 
once. 

"  But  there's  one  thing  I  won't  give  in  to," 
she  said,  "  and  that  is  that  Scriptur'  don't  go 
to  show  that  folks  'd  oughter  be  kind  and 
merciful  to  creatur's.  It  does — I  say  it  does. 
There's  heaps  and  heaps  of  things  that  shows 
it.  Of  course  there's  that  one  about  the  right- 
eous man  regarding  the  life  of  his  beast ;  but 
then  some  might  say  that  was  because  he 
needed  the  beast  and  wanted  its  work.     But 


ANNA    MALANN 

there's  lots  of  passages  besides  that.  Why, 
how  beautiful  it  always  speaks  about  sheep 
and  lambs !  There  ain't  anything  better  it 
can  find  to  liken  God  to  than  a  shepherd,  and 
the  tenderest  kind  of  one,  too.  Why,  it  says 
He  gathers  the  lambs  up  in  His  arms  and  car- 
ries them  in  His  bosom ;  it  tells  how  He  makes 
them  lay  down  in  green  pastures,  and  leads 
them  out  beside  the  still  waters.  And  the 
Master,  too.  He  calls  Himself  the  Good  Shep- 
herd, and  then  explains  to  the  folks  what  a 
good  shepherd  is,  and  how  he  has  names  for 
all  his  sheep  and  knows  them  all,  and  how 
they'll  follow  him  all  about  and  know  his 
voice.  And  it  says  that  he'll  even  give  his 
own  life  for  his  sheep  —  any  good  shepherd 
will,  he  sets  so  much  by  them.  It  stands  to 
reason  no  one  could  treat  sheep  and  lambs 
cruel  anyway  if  they  think  much  of  the  Bible, 
And  telling  people  not  to  aggravate  the  oxen 
by  muzzling  them  up  while  they're  threshing 
out  the  corn,  and  not  to  do  such  an  unnat'ral, 
cruel  kind  of  thing  as  to  seethe  a  kid  in  its 
mother's  milk.  And  where  it  tells  you  in  case 
you  come  across  a  bird's-nest  on  the  ground 
or  up  in  a  tree,  with  the  mother-bird  setting 

H  113 


ANNA    MALANN 

on  her  eggs  or  cuddling  her  young  ones,  to  be 
sure  and  not  hurt  her,  but  let  her  go.  And 
the  talking  so  much  about  creatur's,  how 
smart  and  how  knowing,  and  how  quick  and 
how  busy,  and  how  bold  and  how  handsome  ! 
There's  Solomon,  he  can't  say  enough  about 
the  ants  being  so  forehanded  and  laying  up 
their  food,  and  the  conies  building  in  the 
rocks,  and  the  greyhound,  which  is  so  '  come- 
ly in  going.'  And  in  Job  it  goes  on  about  the 
fine  looks  and  the  strength  and  the  high  spirit 
of  horses,  pawing  the  ground  and  smelling  the 
battle,  and  all.  And  I'm  sure  our  Master  when 
He  was  here  loved  the  birds,  and  talked  about 
them,  and  spoke  of  His  Father's  feeding  them 
and  keeping  count  of  the  sparrows.  And  He 
said,  however  strict  folks  was  about  keeping 
Sunday,  any  one  would  help  a  creatur'  that 
fell  into  a  hole,  or  got  hurt  any  way,  that  day 
or  any  other.  Oh,  I  tell  ye  the  whole  gist  of 
Scriptur's  that  way,  to  my  thinking,  even  if 
it  don't  say  up  and  down  in  big  capitals, 
'Don't  beat  your  horses  or  kick  your  dogs.' 
And  Solomon  says  one  real  smart  thing  about 
my  idee  of  there  not  being  so  much  difference, 
after  all,  'twixt  folks  and  creatur's.  Wait  a 
114 


ANNA    MALANN 

minute,  and  let  me  get  the  old  Bible  and  read 
it  to  you.  Here,  now  :  *  For  that  which  be- 
falleth  the  sons  of  men  befalleth  beasts;  even 
one  thing  befalleth  them ;  as  the  one  dieth, 
so  dieth  the  other  ;  yea,  they  have  all  one 
breath  ;  so  that  a  man  hath  no  pre-eminence 
above  a  beast,'  and  so  on.  Ain't  that  good? 
And  him  so  wise,  you  know  !" 

"  It  must  be  a  sad  thought,"  I  said  to  her 
once,  "that  you  will  never  see  these  animal 
friends  in  the  next  world."  It  was  a  cruel 
thing  to  say,  under  the  circumstances,  but  I 
did  not  stop  to  think. 

A  mist  clouded  the  soft,  dog-like  brown 
eyes,  as  they  met  mine  for  an  instant  and 
then  turned  quickly  away.  "  It's  dreadful," 
she  said,  in  a  low,  hushed  tone — "  dreadful. 
It's  wicked,  I  know,  to  say  so,  but — I  couldn't 
be  happy  up  there  and  them  outside.  Me 
and  all  the  real  folks,  that's  had  everything 
in  this  world  —  rights,  and  laws  to  protect 
their  rights,  and — and — souls — us  all  inside 
heaven,  and  them  that's  been  put  upon  and 
worried  and  tortur'd  all  their  days,  them  out- 
side of  it  all,  oh,  I  couldn't  stand  it — I  know 
I  couldn't !  So — well  —  maybe  I  sha'n't  be 
115 


ANNA    MALANN 

there  myself."  She  went  on  hurriedly,  as  if 
in  response  to  some  expression  she  thought 
my  face  might  wear  :  "  Not  that  I'm  giving 
up  my  religion.  That's  a  sight  of  comfort 
to  me — more'n  anything  else,  I  guess.  But, 
you  see,  folks  generally  are  so  busy  saving 
their  own  souls  and  other  people's — heathen's 
and  all  —  they  can't  attend  to  righting  the 
awful  wrongs  done  to  creatur's,  and  it's  nat- 
'ral,  I  know.  But  I've  got  a  leaning  that 
way,  and  I'm  .so  made  I  seem  to  know  how 
to  help  animals  and  coax  folks  to  be  good  to 
them.  So  I  just  tell  God  right  out  all  about 
it — that  I  feel  I  must  give  up  my  whole  life, 
day  in  and  day  out,  to  helping  and  comfort- 
ing these  creatur's  He's  made,  and  made  so 
like  folks  in  everything  but  just  not  having 
souls.  And  I  tell  Him  " — she  spoke  softly 
and  reverently — "  I  tell  Him  I  love  Him  and 
want  to  serve  Him,  and  I'm  on  his  side,  and 
will  be  to  my  dying  day.  But  I've  got  such 
a  terrible  aching  and  burning  over  the  things 
done  to  these  creatur's  that  I  can't  attend  to 
the  other  things  folks  tell  me  is  the  highest, 
most  important  ones.  I  haven't  got  time 
for  all  the  meetings — the  sewing  society  and 
ii6 


ANNA    MALANN 

missionary  concerts  and  temperance  meet- 
ings and  teachers'  meetings  and  the  anti- 
smoking  society,  and  all  those  stated  means, 
as  they  call  them.  I'm  drove  day  and  night, 
looking  up  suffering  creatur's,  fetching  home 
them  that's  lost,  nursing  the  sick,  chirking 
up  the  lonesome  and  homesick.  Why,  you 
wouldn't  believe  how  full  my  hands  be.  And 
so  I  tell  Him  plain,  but  humble  and  respect- 
ful, that  if  He  thinks  best  to  say,  because  I 
give  up  the  work  and  duty  of  a  professor,  I 
must  give  up  the  rewards  too,  why,  I've 
nothing  to  say.  He  knows  best,  understand- 
ing the  whole  case,  and  I  know  He'll  do 
right.  So  I  just  go  on  with  what  I've  got 
to  do  for  these  poor  things  as  if  I  was  just 
one  of  them,  soul  lacking  and  all.  And  they 
think  I  am." 

I  told  you  I  had  no  story,  nothing  but  a 
picture — poorly  drawn,  I  know — of  one  wom- 
an and  her  work  and  ways.  I  do  not  even 
point  a  moral.  Maybe  there  is  none.  It  is 
for  you  to  say. 


DAVY'S  CHRISTMAS 


DAVY'S   CHRISTMAS 


Yes,  ma'am,  of  course  I'll  tell  you,  as  well 
as  I  know  how,  but  there  ain't  much  to  tell. 
As  for  the  change  you  say  's  come  over 
Anderson,  why,  'twasn't  me  that  done  that, 
you  know. 

You  see,  I  was  raised  where  they  set  a 
good  deal  by  Christmas  —  the  real  part  of 
it,  I  mean.  All  the  children  knew  what  it 
was  kept  for,  and  whose  birthday  'twas,  and 
why  folks  give  presents  that  day.  And  we 
hung  up  our  stockings  at  home,  and  had  a 
tree  for  the  Sunday-school,  and  carols  and 
texts,  and  all  that.  Somehow  I  never  knew, 
or,  anyway,  stopped  to  think,  about  there 
being  other  places  where  nobody  done  this, 
nor  took  any  notice  of  Christmas  at  all.  So, 
when  we  moved  way  out  West  to  Anderson 
that  fall,  and  I  begun  to  look  ahead  and  lay 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

plans  what  I  should  do  for  Christmas,  'twas 
a  big  surprise  to  me  to  find  none  of  the  boys 
and  girls  knew  what  I  was  driving  at. 

'Twas  a  little  place,  anyway,  you  know,  and 
there  wa'n't  many  young  folks.  There  wasn't 
a  church  or  a  Sunday-school  there  neither  ; 
but  somehow  that  didn't  seem  to  trouble  me 
so  much  at  first  as  the  other  thing  —  that 
they  didn't  have  any  Christmas.  You  see, 
I'd  had  it  all  my  life,  and  I  thought  'twas 
just  beautiful.  Why,  'twas  almost  every- 
thing, or,  't  any  rate,  the  beginning  of  every- 
thing. So  I  thought  and  thought  about  it, 
and  when  I'd  got  things  a  little  straightened 
out  in  my  head,  I  went  to  mother.  You 
know  mother,  so  I  needn't  tell  you  how  good 
she  was  about  it,  nor  how  she  entered  right 
into  it  with  me.  That's  her  way — ain't  it, 
ma'am?  She  always  enters  into  things  so 
when  you  want  her  to.  And  she  tallced  to 
father  for  me — that's  one  good  thing  about 
mothers,  their  talking  to  your  fathers  for 
you  —  and  he  come  into  it  too.  We  was 
going  to  have  a  Christmas,  a  real  one,  for 
the  folks  there  in  Anderson. 

Now  we  wa'n't  rich,  you  know  that ;  but 

122 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

we  was  pretty  well  to  do,  and  we  had  a  nice 
little  home  fitted  up  with  all  our  things  from 
the  old  place.  I'd  fetched  along  my  books 
and  cards  and  maps  and  pictur's,  and  the 
carols  we  used  to  sing ;  and  I  had  some  of 
the  things  we  used  to  dress  the  Christmas- 
tree  with — bright  little  balls  and  shiny  stuff 
and  little  bits  of  candles — so  we  could  have  a 
tree,  and  there  hadn't  anybody  there  ever 
see  one.  Mother  had  her  melodeon,  and  she 
said  she'd  play  the  carols,  and  we'd  all  sing 
'em  together.  And  father,  he  promised  to 
talk  a  little  to  the  folks  about  the  day,  and 
what  it  meant  to  everybody.  We  meant  to 
give  presents  too — just  little  cheap  ones,  o' 
course,  but  something,  anyway,  to  every  sin- 
gle boy  and  girl  there. 

You  bet  I  did  enjoy  getting  up  that  thing  ! 
I  tell  you,  'twas  fun  keeping  it  so  secret,  and 
thinking  how  surprised  they'd  be,  and  all. 
Father  and  mother  helped,  but  I  done  most 
of  it  myself  ;  for  father  had  his  regular  work 
'to  do,  and  mother  had  the  baby  to  'tend  to — 
little  Joshua,  you  know. 

But  'twas  all  ready  at  last.  I'd  picked  out 
a  real  pretty  little  tree  up  on  the  hill,  and 
123 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

father'd  cut  it  down  for  me,  and  there  'twas 
now,  standing  up  in  the  best  room,  all  shiny 
with  gilt  and  silver  paper,  and  the  little  tin 
balls  of  different  colors  swinging  on  the 
branches.  And  there  was  red  apples  and 
pine  cones,  and  the  little  candles  from  home 
all  ready  to  light.  'Twas  dreadful  pretty. 
There  was  little  presents  for  'em  all,  mostly 
things  that  I'd  had  give  to  me  Christmases 
and  birthdays,  and  so  on  :  books  and  pictur*- 
cards,  and  one  or  two  little  games,  things  I 
was  glad  enough  to  give  away  to  them  that 
had  so  little.  So  you  see  what  a  splendid 
Christmas  'twas  going  to  be — just  the  thing 
to  show  'em  what  it  meant,  and  make  'em 
always  keep  it  afterwards,  some  way  or 
'nother. 

Oh,  dear  me !  It's  three  whole  years  ago 
now,  but  it  'most  makes  me  cry  to  think  what 
happened,  and  how  'twas  all,  every  single  bit 
of  that  beautiful  plan,  spoiled !  It's  too 
dreadful  to  say  much  about.  The  folks  was 
to  come  Christmas  Eve  for  the  treat,  and 
just  the  night  before  that,  the  twenty-third 
of  December,  our  house  catched  fire  and 
burnt  up.  Every  single  thing  was  burnt, 
124 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

except  the  clothes  we  put  on  in  a  hurry, 
and  we  just  saved  our  own  lives — that  was 
about  all.  As  it  was,  poor  father  got  hurt 
real  bad  trying  to  save  things.  His  hands 
and  arms  was  all  blistered  and  burnt,  and 
his  face  scorched ;  and  mother,  she  catched 
a  dreadful  cold,  and  'most  lost  her  voice. 
At  first  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  but 
the  house  and  our  furniture  and  things, 
and  of  poor  father,  and  how  glad  I  was  we 
was  all  alive — mother,  and  little  Joshua,  and 
all.  But  after  a  spell  it  come  over  me  all  of 
a  sudden — Christmas,  and  the  time  we'd  been 
going  to  have  for  the  folks  !  The  tree  and 
everything  on  it  was  burnt  up.  The  house 
and  best  room,  where  the  company  was  to 
be,  the  melodeon,  and  even  the  singing-books 
that  had  the  carols  in  'em — everything,  every 
single  thing — was  gone ;  even  the  barn,  and 
Jack,  our  dear  old  horse,  went,  too.  Only  the 
cow-house,  that  stood  by  itself  a  little  ways 
off,  didn't  burn,  and  our  little  Jersey  cows, 
Whitefoot  and  Buttercup,  was  saved — that 
was  better  than  nothing. 

It  had  been  a  house  once  where  folks  lived, 
but  it  got  old  and  shackly.  and  some  of  it 

125 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

tumbled  down,  and  the  rest  of  it  made  a  good 
place  for  the  cows.  There  was  a  fireplace 
and  a  chimney  to  it,  so  we  had  a  place  to  go 
to,  such  as  'twas.  The  people  round  there 
was  all  pretty  poor,  and  nobody  lived  very 
near  by.  They  asked  us  to  come,  and  was 
pleasant  enough  about  it,  but  we  thought  we 
hadn't  better  do  it  as  long  as  we  could  take 
care  of  ourselves.  So  we  settled  down  that 
night  as  well 's  we  could  in  the  cow-house, 
with  a  big  fire  to  keep  us  warm,  and  some 
blankets  and  things  the  folks  lent  us. 

Next  morning,  the. very  day  before  Christ- 
mas, you  know,  just  as  quick  as  I  got  a  chance 
to  talk  with  mother,  I  had  to  let  it  all  out. 
I  wasn't  as  big  then  as  I  be  now,  and  I  couldn't 
to  save  my  life  keep  from  crying  like  a 
baby  when  I  spoke  about  the  Christmas.  I 
kept  saying  how  could  God  have  done  such 
a  thing,  when  we  was  just  a-going  to  learn 
the  Anderson  folks  about  the  birthday,  and 
what  it  all  meant.  "  Oh !"  I  says,  "  how  could 
He  do  it  ?"  Well,  mother  she  entered  into 
it — her  way,  you  know  !  She  let  me  see  she 
allowed  for  my  being  disapp'inted,  but  she 
said  she  knew  I'd  come  round  to  seeing  'twas 
126 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

all  right,  somehow,  if  He'd  done  it ;  and  she 
said  He  didn't  need  us  nor  anybody  else  to 
learn  the  Anderson  folks  about  Christmas ; 
He  could  show  'em  Himself  if  'twas  best  for 
'em  to  know.  And  she  said  I  must  be  a  good 
boy,  and  give  it  up,  and  mebbe  next  year  I'd 
have  another  chance.  I  tried  to  be  good,  so's 
not  to  trouble  her;  I  helped  her  with  father 
and  little  Joshua,  and  tried  to  make  things 
comfortable.  But  I  was  thinking  and  think- 
ing all  day  about  the  folks,  and  how  they'd 
got  to  wait  a  whole  long  year  to  see  what 
Christmas  was.  Come  along  towards  noon 
I  says  to  mother,  couldn't  I  see  if  some  one 
wouldn't  let  me  have  one  of  their  rooms,  and 
maybe  their  melodeon,  and  some  of  the  peo- 
ple help  me  a  little,  and  have  just  some  sort 
of  a  Christmas  time,  if  we  couldn't  have  the 
tree  and  the  presents.  And  she  said  I  could 
try  if  I  was  set  on  it.  But  'twasn't  any  good. 
Folks  was  willing  to  come  to  a  treat,  but  they 
wouldn't  help  get  it  up.  I  even  went  to  the 
little  tavern  at  the  Corners,  but  they  said 
'twas  full  that  night,  and  they  couldn't  be 
bothered. 

I  went  home — if  you  could  call  it  home — 
127 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

and  I  set  down  on  the  floor,  and  laid  my  head 
down  on  mother's  lap — she's  got  such  a  nice 
lap — and  told  her  all  about  it.  She  was  real 
good,  but  she  didn't  know  how  to  help  me. 
She  see  herself  I'd  got  to  give  the  whole  thing 
up.  But  she  whispers  to  me,  stroking  my 
head,  says  she,  "  Tell  God  all  about  it,  Davy." 
So  I  done  it  right  there,  just  as  I  was,  with 
my  head  in  mother's  lap.  When  I  got  up,  I 
says,  "Well,  mother,  I've  got  to  give  it  up, 
and  I'm  going  to  stand  it  like  a  man.  But 
mebbe,"  I  says,  "  some  of  the  folks  will  come 
anyway  —  them  that  lives  a  good  ways  off, 
and  hasn't  heard  about  the  fire."  And  she 
says,  "Well,  if  they  do,  Davy,  we'll  be  glad 
to  see  'em,  though  this  isn't  much  of  a  place 
to  have  company." 

What  do  you  think  ?  Come  evening,  if  the 
boys  and  girls,  and  the  growed  folks  too, 
didn't  begin  to  come  along  !  You  see,  I'd 
invited  'em  some  days  afore,  and  hadn't  took 
back  the  invitations.  And  I  s'pose,  even  if 
they  knew  we  didn't  expect  'em,  they  was 
cur'us  to  see  what  we'd  do,  and  to  look  at  the 
burnt  house  and  all.  Why,  most  everybody 
round  there  come,  seems  to  me !  'Twas  a 
128 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

real  nice  night ;  there  wasn't  any  moon,  but 
I  never  see  the  stars  shining  brighter.  I  rec'- 
lect  that,  'cause  father'd  been  telling  me 
about  the  stars  that  winter,  and  I'd  took  to 
noticing  'em.  And  as  I  come  in  that  night  I 
looked  up,  and  see  how  bright  they  was,  par- 
tic'lar  one  big  one  father  called  the  evening 
star. 

The  folks  didn't  come  in  at  first.  They 
kind  of  stood  round  outside,  and  when  I  went 
out  to  speak  to  'em,  they  said  they  didn't 
want  to  trouble  us,  but  they  was  round  that 
way,  and  they  thought  they'd  just  see  if  they 
could  do  anything  for  us.  'Twas  pretty  cold, 
and  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  'em  standing  out- 
doors so  long.  So  I  run  back  inside,  and 
asked  mother  if  I  couldn't  bring  'em  in. 
There  wasn't  any  seats,  to  be  sure,  but  'twas 
warm,  and  it  seemed  politer,  anyway.  Mother 
said  o'  course  I  could ;  let  'em  come  in  ;  she 
didn't  mind. 

They  was  a  little  backward  at  first,  'peared 
to  feel  a  mite  bashful.  But  bime-by  one  after 
'nother  stepped  inside.  I  felt  a  little  foolish 
myself,  and' didn't  know  just  what  to  say  first 
off.  But  Jim  Bissell,  a  rough  §ort  of  boy 
I  129 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

from  the  Corners,  he  begun  to  laugh,  and  says 
out  loud,  "Where's  your  Chris'mus,  as  you 
call  it,  Dave?  What's  it  all  about,  anyway  ?" 
And  then — I  don't  know  to  this  day  how  I 
ever  picked  up  courage  for  it,  but  it  come 
into  my  head  I  just  must  tell  'em  something, 
if  'twas  only  the  leastest  bit,  about  the  day 
that  was  coming  to-morrow — I  just  shet  up 
my  eyes  one  second,  and  then  I  wet  my  lips, 
and  begun.  I  told  'em  what  I'd  meant  to  do, 
and  how  'twas  all  spoiled,  and  how  dreadful 
sorry  I  was.  I  said  I'd  tried  to  get  some 
other  place  to  hold  the  meeting  in,  but  I 
couldn't,  and  I'd  tried  the  tavern  at  the  Cor- 
ners, but  there  wasn't  any  room  for  it  there. 
And  then  I  put  it 's  well 's  I  could,  about  how 
father  was  laid  up  and  couldn't  talk  to  'em, 
and  that  I  wasn't  big  enough  to  explain 
things  myself.  "  But,"  I  says,  "  I  can  read 
you  about  it,  only  I  ain't  no  great  of  a  read- 
er." And  then  comes  over  me,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, that  our  Bibles  was  all  burnt  up.  It  just 
seemed  as  if  'twas  meant  them  folks  shouldn't 
learn  about  Christmas  that  year,  and  I'd  bet- 
ter give  up. 
.  But  mother  says  in  a  softly  voice — she  was 
130 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

just  back  of  me — she  says,  "  Don't  you  know 
some  verses,  Davy  ?"  I  knew  I  did,  for  I'd 
said  'em  at  a  Christmas-tree  the  year  afore. 
So  I  begun :  "  Now  when  Jesus  was  born  in 
Bethlehem  of  Judea "  —  you  know  how  it 
goes.  At  first  Jim  Bissell  laughed,  and  some 
of  the  others  j'ined  in,  and  whispered  and 
made  fun.  But  the  others  stopped  'em,  and 
in  a  minute  I  see  'twas  dreadful  still,  and 
only  just  my  voice,  pretty  shaky,  you  know, 
going  on  with  that  chapter.  I  didn't  know 
only  the  first  'leven  verses.  When  I  come 
to  the  last  one — "  And  when  they  were  come 
into  the  house,  they  saw  the  young  child  and 
Mary  his  mother  " — I  heard  a  little  gurglin' 
sound.  I  didn't  dast  to  turn  my  head,  but  I 
knew  'twas  little  Joshua  taking  notice.  And 
just  then  I  heard  another  queer  noise,  kind 
of  a  choky  noise  that  was,  and  I  see  'twas 
Cap'n  Frink,  the  man  they  called  the  wildest 
feller  about  Anderson,  though  he  come  from 
New  England,  and  was  raised,  I've  heard, 
'mongst  real  good  people.  There  was  some- 
thing the  matter  with  his  throat,  and  he  was 
coughing  till  the  water  come  into  his  eyes, 
and  that  interrupted  me  a  mite.  But  in  a 
131 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

minute  I  went  over  to  Luke,  and  I  says  that 
part  about  the  shepherds  and  the  Baby  lay- 
ing in  the  manger,  on  account  of  there  not 
being  any  room  in  the  inn,  you  know.  Then 
I  stopped,  and  I  thinks  to  myself,  oh,  if  I 
only  had  the  melodeon,  and  the  books  with 
the  carols  ! 

Just  then  mother  says,  softly  again,  "  Can't 
you  sing  baby's  hymn,  Davy  ?"  Now  I  'ain't 
got  much  ear  for  music,  they  say,  and  I  was 
that  scared  my  voice  was  croakier  than  com- 
mon. I  can't  turn  many  tunes,  but  that  one 
turns  itself,  I've  heard  it  so  many  times  from 
mother  when  she  was  holding  little  Joshua. 
I  used  to  pick  it  out  with  one  finger  on  the 
melodeon.  I  says  to  myself,  *'  Here  goes,  't 
any  rate,"  and  I  let  out  : 

"Hush,  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber." 

*Twas  kind  of  dreadful  to  hear  my  own 
voice,  and  nobody  j'ining  in  to  help  me,  and 
I  got  scarier  and  shakier,  till  I  was  just  go- 
ing to  break  down,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
I  found  some  one  was  helping.  There  was 
a  real  nice,  loud,  sweet  voice  singing  the 
words  with  me,  and  carrying  the  tune  all 
132 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

right,  only  shaking  a  mite,  just  as  mine  done. 
And,  of  all  the  folks  there,  who  should  it  be 
but  Lucy  Ann  Wells,  the  roughest  woman  in 
the  whole  place,  that  'most  everybody  was 
afraid  of  !  She  had  a  cross,  sharp  voice  when 
she  talked,  but  'twas  real  sweet  and  clear  and 
pleasant-sounding  now.  I  don't  see  how  she 
ever  knew  that  hymn,  but  she  did,  and  she 
and  me  sung  it  right  along  as  far  as  I  knew 
the  words.    When  we  got  to  where  it  says : 

"  When  His  birthplace  was  a  stable, 
And  His  softest  bed  was  hay," 

I  see  that  all  the  people  was  looking  right 
over  my  head,  and  kind  of  behind  me,  and  not 
at  me  at  all.  So  when  we  ended  up,  Lucy  Ann 
and  me,  and  I  dast  to  turn  round,  I  done  it. 

There  wa'n't  anything  uncommon  there — 
just  mother  and  the  baby.  She'd  been  a- 
holding  him,  and  he'd  heard  us  singing  his 
fav'rite  hymn,  that  he  went  to  sleep  by  regu- 
lar, and  he'd  thought  'twas  bedtime,  so  he'd 
dropped  off,  and  mother'd  laid  him  down. 

O'  course  there  wa'n't  any  place  to  lay  him 
but  the  hay.  But  that  was  real  soft  and  com- 
fortable, and  he  did  look  real  cute  laying 
^33 


DAVY'S    CHRISTMAS 

there,  with  his  pretty  yeller  hair  all  fuzzy 
round  his  little  head,  and  mother,  with  her 
nice,  dear,  mothery  face,  a  leaning  over  him. 
Seems  's  if  there  ain't  much  more  to  tell. 
To  this  day  I  don't  get  it  through  my  head 
why  they  begun  to  have  Christmases  them- 
selves, after  that,  there  in  Anderson.  If  I'd 
'a'  carried  out  my  plan,  and  had  that  tree 
and  all,  why,  I  could  see  how  it  come  about. 
But  when  we  didn't  have  any  Christmas  at 
all  that  year — no  tree,  no  presents,  no  re- 
freshments, no  nothing — well,  as  I  said  afore, 
it  beats  me  how  they  come  to  keep  Christmas 
the  very  next  year,  and  ever  sence. 


CLAVIS 


CLAVIS 


Perhaps  the  child's  mother  might  have 
found  it  out  sooner  than  I  did  if  she  had 
lived.  I  cannot  tell.  I  know  she  could  not 
have  loved  the  little  one  more  tenderly, 
watched  her  more  closely.  From  the  hour 
when  I  took  the  child  into  my  arms,  out  of 
whose  clasp  the  mother  had  just  slipped  away 
quietly  and  forever,  the  little  girl  was  all  the 
world  to  me. 

There  was  a  strange  and  wonderful  sympa- 
thy between  us  two.  She  understood  me  al- 
ways when  no  one  else  could,  and  she  told 
me  so.  That  this  comprehension  was  not 
gained  through  the  ear,  expressed  by  the 
tongue,  I  did  not  for  a  long  time  notice.  We 
lived  so  quietly,  you  see,  far  away  from  the 
busy  world,  in  the  very  heart  of  nature, 
among  trees  and  hills  and  streams,  with  birds 
137 


CLAVIS 

and  flowers  and  wild  free  things,  and  we  did 
not  talk  much.  When  I  held  her  close  to  my 
heart  and  we  looked  out  upon  the  shining 
river,  up  to  the  purple  hills,  into  the  rosy- 
clouds,  or  over  to  the  dark,  deep  forest,  there 
was  no  need  of  words.  And  when  there  came 
the  rushing  sound  of  the  wind  among  the 
trees,  the  music  of  the  brook  whose  white 
waters  ran  over  the  stones,  the  glad  song  of 
the  bobolink,  or  the  tender  strain  of  the 
thrush,  I  looked  into  her  deep,  still  eyes  and 
felt  that  we  were  both  listening,  and  that  we 
both  heard. 

We  had  no  neighbors,  few  friends,  and  for 
a  long  time  there  was  no  one  to  tell  me  of 
anything  the  child  lacked  or  missed.  But 
there  came  a  time  when  it  was  said  that  my 
little  child  did  not  hear,  that  her  ears  were 
sealed  to  all  sound,  and  that  she  would  never 
speak  to  me. 

I  do  not  remember  that  even  then  it  was  a 
great  grief  to  hear  this.  Even  then,  when 
she  was  so  small,  so  young,  I  felt  that,  silent 
and  deaf  to  others  though  she  might  be,  yet 
she  understood  me  well,  and  could  tell  me  so. 
I  do  not  know  how  this  was;  I  cannot  ex- 
138 


m 

CLAVIS 

plain  it,  I  know  only  that  I,  who  had  failed 
hitherto  to  make  my  meaning  clear  to  those 
around  me,  found  comprehension,  full  under- 
standing, perfect  sympathy,  in  my  little  silent 
child. 

I  had  always  been  a  shy,  awkward,  reticent 
man.  A  strange,  sad,  loveless  boyhood,  a 
youth  of  struggle  unrewarded,  privation  un- 
pitied,  longing  for  affection  unsatisfied,  had 
made  me  this.  And  now,  just  when  I  had 
ceased  to  expect  it,  there  came  to  me  all  I 
had  needed,  craved,  despaired  of  so  long. 
There  had  always  been  a  strange  thing  in 
my  life  which  no  one  understood  or  cared 
for.  From  my  earliest  years  there  had  been 
a  constant  wonder  in  my  mind,  a  strange, 
eager  questioning  about  the  meaning  of 
things.  I  did  not  care  for  the  answers  men 
give  to  such  questions — for  the  explanations 
found  in  learned  books  or  the  wisdom  taught 
in  schools.  All  my  life  long  I  had  known 
that  there  was  one  key  to  all  the  mysteries 
of  which  this  world  is  so  full,  but  that  no 
man  had  ever  found  it. 

I  had  felt  sure  that  if  any  one  could  learn 
the  meaning  of  just  one  simple  thing  in  the 
139 


CLAVIS 

woods,  or  on  the  hills,  or  among  the  flowers 
or  birds,  he  would  understand  everything; 
there  would  be  no  more  puzzles,  nothing 
hidden  or  unexplained,  and  from  my  boy- 
hood I  had  striven,  thirsted,  to  find  that  key. 
Many,  many  times  I  had  seemed  to  almost 
grasp  it.  Some  sight,  some  sound,  some 
faint  elusive  odor,  would  give  a  hint,  a  sug- 
gestion, and  quick,  sudden  as  the  flight  of  a 
darting  bird,  the  truth  I  had  sought  so  long 
would  flash  before  me  and  was  gone.  There 
were  so  many  things  to  wonder  at  even  in  the 
simple  life  which  my  little  girl  and  I  lived, 
and  we  were  always  wondering. 

Perhaps  to  you  there  are  no  mysteries  in 
the  wild  flowers.  They  are  so  simple,  so 
fair,  seen  at  a  glance,  passed  by,  or  gathered 
and  thrown  aside.  But  to  us  there  were  such 
strange  puzzles  there.  In  the  spring,  when 
the  little  linnaea  crept  over  the  ground  and 
lifted  its  pink  bells  on  slender  hair-like  stems, 
there  came  to  us  from  it  always  the  same 
fragrance,  a  subtle  perfume  we  could  not 
define.  We  were  sure  no  other  blossom,  no 
other  thing  on  earth,  held  that  odor  ;  and  yet 
it  brought  us  memories,  was  linked  with  some- 
140 


CLAVIS 

thing  we  could  not  recall ;  it  was  full  of  asso- 
ciation, but  with  what  ?  Where  had  we  ever 
before  breathed  that  aroma  of  spice,  of  sweet- 
ness, that  it  should  bring  us  that  strange 
feeling — half  sadness,  half  joy,  a  memory  so 
like  a  hope  ? 

And  the  colors  of  the  flowers — they  surely 
held  a  meaning  if  we  could  but  catch  it.  The 
speedwell's  gentle  blue,  the  bear-plum's  pale 
yellow,  the  buttercup's  polished  gold,  the 
aster's  lavender  and  mauve  and  purple,  the 
cardinal-flower's  vivid  red,  the  crimson  pink 
of  the  wild  rose  —  we  knew  them  all,  and 
almost  understood  them.  One  touch,  one 
word,  to  help  us,  and  the  whole  world  of- 
color  would  fall  into  harmony.  I  think  my 
little  girl  understood  these  flower  tints  bet- 
ter than  I  did ;  perhaps  because  she  did  not 
hear  or  speak  as  others  hear  and  speak  her 
eyes  saw  more  than  most,  and  she  would 
hold  a  brightly  tinted  blossom  and  gaze  into 
its  blue  or  pink  or  yellow  with  such  deep 
content  in  her  strange  eyes  that  I  felt  she 
was  learning  much  of  the  meaning  it  held. 

But  she  did  not  know  all.     One  summer  she 
had  been  day  after  day  among  the  cardinal- 
Mi 


CLAVIS 

flowers  by  the  brook.  She  had  bent  over 
them  and  touched  them,  drinking  in  the 
warmth  and  glow  of  their  brilliant  red  till 
she  seemed  to  comprehend  all,  and  to  know 
why  these  flowers  alone  held  such  living  fire. 
But  one  hot  August  noon  when  she  was  among 
them,  watching  them  burn  to  more  vivid 
crimson  under  the  sun's  fierce  heat,  she 
found,  among  the  others,  a  stalk  of  pure 
white  blossoms.  They  were  cardinal-flowers, 
too,  but  pale  and  cold.  She  led  me  to  the 
place  and  showed  me  the  delicate  snowy 
flowers,  with  a  look  on  her  face  half  sad,  half 
frightened,  and  very  wistful.  I  could  not 
help  her.  How  could  it  be  ?  What  was  the 
meaning  ?  It  was  the  warmth,  the  glow,  the 
depth  and  vividness,  which  made  the  other 
blossoms  cardinal-flowers.  But  here  was  one 
which  lacked  all  these  qualities,  and  was  like 
snow,  not  fire.  Never  again  did  my  child 
tell  me  that  she  knew  the  meaning  of  the 
cardinal-flower. 

And  there  was  a  certain  plant  which  always 
grew  in  the  forest,  under  the  pines,  and  bore 
one  large  rose-colored  blossom,  just  one  soli- 
tary pouch -like  flower  upon   each   slender 
142 


CLAVIS 

stalk,  always  alone,  always  by  itself ;  we 
knew  it  by  its  oneness,  its  being  single  and 
solitary.  One  day  we  found  among  the  rest 
a  plant  just  the  same  but  that  its  slender 
stalk  bore  two  twin  blossoms,  and  they  were 
white,  not  pink. 

But  I  think  there  was  no  puzzle  among  the 
flowers  so  hard  to  solve  as  that  of  the  closed 
gentian.  No  one  could  help  wondering  over 
that.  Why,  if  it  is  never  to  unfold,  if  no  sun- 
shine or  dew  or  soft  warm  air  can  ever  open 
its  fast-closed  petals  —  why  should  it  be  so 
fair  within  ?  For  we  had  looked  inside,  gen- 
tly opening  the  dark  purple -blue,  bud -like 
blossom.  It  was  quite  finished  within,  tinted 
and  veined,  satin-smooth,  as  dainty  and  com- 
plete as  any  of  its  sisters  who  open  their  eyes 
to  the  light  and  air.  We  could  find  no  secret 
theres  no  reason  for  the  shut-up,  lonely  life, 
and  while  I  thought  and  queried  and  sur- 
mised, I  could  see  the  wonder  grow  and 
deepen  in  my  little  voiceless  child's  tender 
eyes  of  darkest  blue.  But  no  one  helped 
us ;  nothing  told  us  the  meaning  of  it 
all. 

The  birds  made  us  wonder  too.  We  could 
143 


CLAVIS 

not  understand  their  songs,  though  each  had 
its  meaning  ;  we  were  sure  of  that.  For  she 
heard  them  too.  Sealed  as  her  ears  might 
be,  she  felt  the  notes  in  some  strange  unex- 
plained way,  and  I  read  them  over  again  in 
her  eyes.  The  clear,  sweet,  far  -  reaching 
whistle  of  the  white-throat  sparrow,  the  soft, 
gentle  whisper  of  the  waxwing,  the  swamp- 
sparrow's  trill,  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  wood- 
pewee,  the  glad,  free  strain  of  the  bobolink, 
the  gurgle  and  croon  of  the  cuckoo — we  knew 
them  all.  But  why  did  each  bring  such  a  dif- 
ferent thought?  There  was  one  small  bird 
whose  color  was  like  that  of  the  dark  pine- 
trees  where  he  sang,  and  his  strain  was  al- 
most like  human  speech,  always  the  same — 
just  a  few  appealing  words,  then  silence.  Up 
on  the  hill  above  the  lake  the  winter-wren 
sang.  There  were  so  many  different  mean- 
ings in  his  song,  bright  and  sad  and  tender. 
We  smiled  as  we  heard  it,  but  the  tears  were 
very  near  our  eyes.  And  in  early  morning 
and  in  the  twilight  the  veery  always  rang  his 
silver  bells.  Over  and  over  again  they  rang 
and  vibrated,  till  our  hearts  ached  with  the 
sweetness  and  mystery  of  it.  Why  did  the 
144 


CLAVIS 

bird  sing  that  strain  and  never  any  other? 
And  what  did  it  mean  ? 

And  there  was  the  hermit-thrush.  I  have 
said  that  there  were  many  things  which 
seemed  at  times  about  to  give  us  the  light  we 
sought.  But  of  all  these  the  song  of  the 
hermit  -  thrush  most  often  brought  us  such 
glimpses.  In  the  evening  twilight  of  a  June 
day,  when  all  nature  seemed  resting  in  quiet, 
the  liquid,  melting,  lingering  notes  of  the  soli- 
tary bird  would  steal  out  upon  the  air  and 
move  us  strangely.  What  was  the  feeling  it 
awoke  in  our  hearts  ?  Was  it  sorrow  or  joy, 
fear  or  hope,  memory  or  expectation  ?  And 
while  we  listened,  my  little  quiet  girl  and  I, 
suddenly  we  would  turn  with  quick,  eager 
looks  and  read  in  each  other's  eyes  the  same 
thought.  The  meaning  of  it  all — it  was  com- 
ing ;  we  should  know  ;  it  was  trembling  on 
the  air,  and  in  an  instant  it  would  reach  us. 
Then  it  faded,  it  was  gone,  and  we  could  not 
even  remember  what  it  had  been. 

The  name  of  my  child  was  Clavis.  When 
I  had  first  looked  into  her  deep,  earnest  eyes 
of  violet-blue  there  had  arisen  in  my  heart  a 
strange  hope  that  through  this  little  girl  ) 


CLAVIS 

might  find  the  meaning,  the  key,  I  had  sought 
so  long,  and  in  that  hope  I  gave  her  this 
name.  As  the  years  went  by,  hope  became 
expectation,  expectation  foreknowledge,  and 
I  knew  that  sooner  or  later  my  silent  child 
would  bring  me  the  truth. 

I  do  not  know  just  how  it  came  about,  but 
many  people  learned  of  this  strange  question- 
ing of  ours.  I  sought  no  knowledge,  no  help, 
in  the  matter  from  others,  even  from  the 
most  learned  men.  For  I  had  read  their 
books,  and  I  knew  they  themselves  had  never 
found  the  key.  But  they  came  to  me  from 
far  and  near,  and  each  one  brought  his  own 
explanation,  his  own  theory  or  creed.  I  will 
own  that  sometimes  —  for  they  were  very 
learned  men — their  words  half  satisfied  me, 
and  for  a  moment  I  felt  that  I  had  grasped 
the  clew  I  sought.  But  always,  always  when 
I  turned  and  met  the  quiet  eyes  of  my  child, 
I  saw  in  their  dark-blue  depths  the  certainty 
that  I  had  but  touched  the  surface  of  things, 
and  that  far,  far  below  lay  the  truth  I  was 
seeking. 

There  was  a  strange  thing  about  these 
meetings.  However  earnest  and  enthusiastic 
146 


CLAVIS 

the  man  might  be  who  came  to  expound  his 
own  belief  and  teach  us  the  meaning  of 
things,  I  always  saw  a  change  come  over  him 
before  he  went  away.  For  when  he  looked 
into  my  child's  quiet  eyes,  so  deep,  so  full  of 
hidden  meaning,  his  own  eyes  were  troubled, 
his  looks  confused ;  his  voice  lost  its  self- 
confident  ring  ;  his  words  came  more  slowly 
and  with  hesitation,  and  sometimes  ceased 
utterly.  Such  a  one  would  sometimes  tell  us 
before  he  went  away  that  perhaps,  after  all, 
he  had  not  discovered  the  real  meaning  of 
things  :  perhaps  the  key  was  yet  to  be  sought 
and  found. 

So  the  months  and  years  went  by,  and  more 
and  more  often  came  to  us  both  those  faint 
brief  glimpses  of  a  great  satisfying  truth,  of 
one  single  simple  key  which  should  unlock 
all  our  mysteries.  There  were  mountains 
about  our  home,  and  strange  things  hap- 
pened upon  those  hills.  Sometimes  when 
the  summer  sun  lay  hot  and  bright  upon 
them  we  saw  shadows  upon  their  peaks  and 
sides.  Some  were  shadows  of  clouds  which 
floated  above  them  ;  these  we  saw  and  recog- 
nized. But  there  were  other  shadows  there, 
147 


CLAVIS 

strange,  unfamiliar  things,  like  nothing  in 
the  sky,  like  nothing  on  the  earth,  wonder- 
ful shapes  and  full  of  meaning.  As  I  clasped 
my  little  Clavis's  hand  tightly  and  we  gazed 
eagerly,  tremblingly,  upon  those  dark  roll- 
ing shades  cast  there  by  something  we  could 
not  see,  of  which  we  knew  nothing,  we  felt 
the  whole  truth  very  near.  There  is  a  won- 
derful light  that  comes  sometimes  at  even- 
ing upon  those  hills,  creeping  from  base  to 
summit,  changing  from  pink  to  purple,  from 
purple  to  blood-red,  till  all  is  fire  and  glow 
and  glory,  and  every  time  it  came  it  flashed 
a  quick,  fleeting  hint  of  what  we  sought. 
And  never,  never  did  the  hermit  -  thrush 
chant  his  silver,  melting,  throbbing,  ringing 
strain  without  our  seeming  to  hold  for  one 
short,  vanishing  instant  the  key  to  all  things. 
If  it  could  but  sing  always,  we  thought,  or 
even  a  little  longer,  we  should  know  all. 

The  learned  men,  the  great  scholars,  think- 
ers, writers,  came  more  often  to  us.  I  do 
not  remember  how  it  happened  that  at  last 
these  many  great  men  agreed  to  assemble 
together  at  our  home  —  my  little  girl's  and 
mine  —  and  listen  to  what  we  should  say  to 
148 


CLAVIS 

them.  They  knew  well,  for  we  had  told  them 
so,  that  we  had  never  yet  found  the  one  pass- 
word, the  true  solution,  the  right  key  to  all 
the  strange  things  about  us.  But  I  think 
they  wished  to  be  convinced  that  any  one 
key  would  open  all,  that  there  was  but  one 
solution  to  all  problems,  one  answer  to  all 
riddles,  as  I  believed,  and  as  Clavis  knew. 
And  I  talked  to  them.  It  was  early  June 
and  in  the  evening  twilight,  and  we  were  out- 
of-doors.  It  seems  strange  to  me,  as  it  doubt- 
less does  to  you,  that  so  many  great  men 
came  together  there  to  listen  to  one  unsatis- 
fied, questioning  man  and  one  little,  silent, 
expectant  girl.  But  they  came,  and  under 
the  shadow  of  the  mighty  hills  they  gathered 
there,  and  I  stood  in  their  midst,  with  Clavis 
at  my  side.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  we  said 
to  them :  because  of  all  that  came  after- 
wards, I  forget  much.  I  know  that  we  spoke 
of  the  strange  mysteries  about  us  even  there 
in  that  quiet  spot,  among  the  dark  pines  and 
under  the  shadow  of  the  mountains.  Then 
I  told  them,  and  Clavis  said  it  over  and  over 
again  in  that  silent  way  I  cannot  make  you 
comprehend,  that  we  felt  sure  that  there  was 
149 


CLAVIS 

one  single  clew  to  all  these  riddles,  if  we 
could  but  find  it.  The  secret  of  the  flower 
that  never  opens,  like  a  bud,  an  undeveloped, 
immature,  unfinished  thing  to  outward  seem- 
ing, but  a  fair,  complete  blossom  within  ;  the 
meaning  of  the  purple  light  that  comes  upon 
the  hills  at  evening ;  the  suggestion  in  the 
perfume  of  the  linncca  ;  the  memories  —  or 
hopes — awakened  by  the  thrush's  song ;  the 
black  shadows  on  the  sunny  mountain-side, 
cast  there  by  something  far  above,  which  our 
eyes  cannot  see ;  the  frost  -  white  cardinal- 
flower  springing  up  among  its  glowing  sis- 
ters ;  the  large  pink  blossom  in  the  forest, 
whose  very  nature  and  property  seems  to  be 
that  it  should  be  solitary  on  its  slender  stem, 
yet  bearing  sometimes  fair  twin  flowers — all 
these  things,  and  many  more  which  made  us 
wonder  and  question  now,  would  lie  open, 
plain,  and  simple  before  us  could  we  touch 
the  key  we  sought.  We  told  them  how  near 
it  sometimes  came  to  us — how  a  perfume,  a 
sight,  a  sound,  a  touch,  seemed  so  close  to 
bringing  the  clew.  And  I  saw,  and  my  little 
girl's  eyes  shone  with  a  glad  but  still  light 
as  she  saw  it  too,  that  one  after  another  re- 
150 


CLAVIS 

membered  how  such  moments,  such  glimpses, 
had  come  to  him,  and  how  brief,  how  sweet, 
how  fleeting,  they  had  been.  While  I  talked, 
the  breeze  that  always  comes  down  at  sunset 
from  the  cool  mountains  sprang  up,  and  as  it 
reached  me  it  brought  that  strange,  elusive 
odor  of  spice,  of  sweetness,  from  the  pink 
bells  of  the  linnaea  growing  thickly  among 
the  pine-trees,  and  for  one  brief,  sudden  in- 
stant I  remembered  or  foresaw  its  meaning. 
Then,  like  the  faint,  evanescent  perfume 
itself,  the  thought  was  gone,  and  I  could  not 
recall  or  tell  it.  I  looked  at  Clavis.  She  too 
had  read  that  meaning,  but  it  had  vanished  ; 
yet  her  deep  eyes  shone  with  a  still,  glad 
light,  which  said  that  it  would  surely  come 
again,  and  we  should  keep  it. 

Now  the  wonderful  light  crept  up  the  hills. 
It  was  golden  at  first,  and  turned  the  grass 
and  the  tree  trunks  yellow  and  russet,  then  it 
changed  the  leaves  overhead  to  orange,  and 
then  flushed  and  reddened  as  it  crept  up 
the  hill-sides,  crimsoning  the  lower  peaks, 
and  still  rising,  rising,  till,  as  it  touched  the 
top  of  the  highest,  grandest  mountain,  it  made 
its  rugged,  rocky  summit  as  red  as  blood. 
151 


CLAVIS 

"Suddenly  all  my  being  was  flooded  with  a 
quick,  glowing  flame  which  showed  me  all 
we  were  seeking.  For  the  instant  I  knew  it ; 
I  could  tell  it  to  the  people.  But  before  my 
slow  tongue  could  form  the  words  the  color 
upon  the  hill-tops  faded,  the  flush  died  away, 
and  I  had  forgotten.  I  turned  an  almost 
hopeless,  despairing  look  upon  my  little  girl. 
She  was  very  still,  as  always.  But  upon  her 
soft  cheek  lingered  the  flush  of  rose  which 
had  left  the  sky,  and  in  her  quiet  eyes  there 
shone  an  almost  triumphant  light  which 
spoke  of  victory  very  near.  They  saw  it  too, 
and  clustered  close  together  and  around  us, 
while  over  all  came  that  hush  which  seems  to 
throb  with  expectancy  and  thrill  with  antici- 
pation. 

Up  in  a  lofty  pine  above  our  heads  a  little 
lonely  bird  uttered  his  simple  strain — a  few 
appealing,  wistful  notes,  then  silence.  Then 
a  veery  rang  his  silver  bells.  Over  and  again 
they  rang  and  vibrated,  till  our  hearts  ached 
with  the  sweetness  and  mystery  of  it. 

Then  from  the  hill-side  across  the  river  a 
hermit  -  thrush  began  to  sing.  Everything 
besides  was  very  still,  and  the  air  throbbed 
152 


CLAVIS 

and  trembled,  pulsated  and  quivered  with 
that  wonderful  strain.  And  I  knew  all :  I 
held  the  key.  A  moment  of  suspense,  of 
waiting,  fearing  lest  it  vanish  as  had  died 
into  silence  the  bird's  song,  then  I  looked  into 
my  child's  eyes.  Yes,  she  knew  it  too.  I 
read  it  over  again  in  the  dark  depths  of  her 
eyes,  and  the  strange,  sweet,  mysterious  smile 
that  lingered  about  her  silent  lips. 

Then  I  spoke.  For  the  first  time  in  all  the 
ages  was  told  the  secret  of  things.  I  held 
the  key,  and  I  showed  it  to  them  all.  I  can- 
not tell  you  of  that  hour,  the  wonder,  the  ex- 
ultation, the  glad  surprise  ;  no  words  could 
make  you  comprehend.  It  was  my  voice 
that  spoke,  but  it  was  at  Clavis  that  they 
looked,  and  from  her  stillness  they  gathered 
more  than  from  my  spoken  words. 

Then  hands  clasped  hands,  eyes  gazed  into 
each  other,  lips  quivered,  cheeks  were  wet 
with  tears.  They  knew  all  now,  and  it  was 
all  so  simple,  learned  in  one  brief  second. 
How  had  we  missed  it  so  long,  sought  it  so 
vainly  ?  How  could  there  have  been  any  key 
but  this,  now  ours  forever  ?  No,  I  say  again, 
I  cannot  tell  you  of  it.  In  all  time  there 
153 


CLAVIS 

never  was  an  hour  like  that.    Will  ever  such 
a  one  come  again  ? 

Darkness  came  on,  the  breeze  from  the 
mountains  grew  chill,  and  we  must  separate. 
On  the  morrow  we  would  meet  again,  and 
then  decide  how  this  great  news  might  be 
told  to  the  world.  When  all  had  gone,  and 
my  little  girl  and  I  were  left  alone,  I  took  her 
to  my  heart,  and  we  talked  in  our  strange, 
silent  way  of  what  had  come  to  us.  I  was 
full  of  a  solemn,  awed  wonder,  but  she  felt 
no  surprise,  only  a  still  joy  that  what  she 
had  known  was  coming  should  be  here  now. 
I  had  thought  that  the  excitement  and  won- 
der would  banish  sleep  from  my  eyes,  but  I 
slept  long  and  dreamlessly.  I  awoke  to  dark 
skies,  thick  clouds,  and  a  chill  air.  By  degrees 
I  remembered.  I  thought  of  the  assembly  of 
the  night  before,  of  the  questioning  looks, 
the  earnest  faces  upturned  to  mine,  of  the 
purple  light,  the  linnaea's  fragrance,  the  lone- 
some bird  in  the  pine-tree,  then  the  hermit- 
thrush's  song.  I  saw  the  glad,  the  solemn, 
exulting  faces,  recalled  the  joy,  the  peace,  the 
wonder  of  those  to  whom  the  key  was  shown. 
But — what  was  that  key  ?  For  an  instant  I 
154 


CLAVIS 

had  lost  it  as  in  the  old  days.  But  it  would 
return  ;  never  could  such  a  blessed  thing  as 
came  to  me  that  fair  June  evening  and  stayed 
so  long — never  in  life  could  it  be  forgotten, 
lost.  I  was  but  half  awake  ;  I  was  yet  dazed 
with  sleep  ;  I  would  go  out  into  the  morning 
air,  look  up  at  the  hills,  and  remember  all. 
But  I  could  not  grasp  it ;  it  just  escaped  each 
time  I  sought  to  seize  it.  Like  the  vanishing 
perfume  of  a  flower,  the  fading  light  upon 
the  hills,  a  bird's  faint  dying  song,  it  drifted 
from  me. 

But  I  was  not  afraid.  So  many  knew  it 
now,  it  could  not  be  lost.  While  I  stood  in 
the  raw  chill  air  of  the  dark  morning,  one  of 
the  learned  men  who  had  been  with  us  the 
night  before  came  to  me.  His  face  was  a 
little  troubled,  but  brightened  as  he  saw  me, 
and  he  spoke  quickly,  eagerly.  He  told  me 
that  in  his  sleep  the  clear  outlines  of  that 
wonderful  truth  he  had  held  the  last  night 
had  become  somewhat  blurred,  confused. 
Would  I  tell  him  again,  now  in  the  light  of 
day,  just  what  had  brought  such  joy,  such 
peace,  when  he  first  heard  it  ?  For  the  mo- 
ment I  could  not  tell  him,  and  I  said  so. 
155 


CLAVIS 

One  after  another  came  to  us  those  who  had 
listened  and  heard  and  rejoiced  a  few  hours 
before,  and  all  with  the  same  troubled  confu- 
sion. Was  it  so  with  all  ?  Had  we  let  sleep 
steal  away  that  wonderful,  priceless  treasure  ? 
So  it  seemed  ;  for  all  came,  and  all  had  for- 
gotten. For  a  brief  instant  I  was  seized  with 
a  terrible  fear.  Then  I  smiled,  and  remem- 
bered there  was  no  cause  for  alarm  :  Clavis 
knew  all ;  Clavis  never  forgot,  never  lost 
anything  she  had  once  held  fast.  I  went  to 
her.  She  was  asleep,  her  fair  hair  like  sun- 
shine about  her  head,  the  white  lids  shut 
down  over  her  dark  eyes.  As  I  looked  at 
her  she  awoke.  I  need  not  have  been  afraid. 
One  glance  into  her  still  glad  eyes  showed 
me  she  had  not  forgotten.  The  key  was  not 
lost :  Clavis  knew  all.  She  told  me  in  her 
silent  way,  as  I  took  her  in  my  arms,  that  all 
was  well :  she  held  the  key  ;  we  should  all 
have  it — we  need  not  fear  ;  she  knew  all,  and 
we  should  soon  know  all  likewise.  She  was 
very  weary,  she  said,  and  would  like  to  rest  a 
little  while — only  a  little  while,  and  we  should 
come  to  her  and  know  all.  It  was  almost 
like  the  hour  in  which  I  first  held  out  the  key 
156 


CLAVIS 

when  I  went  back  to  the  fearful,  trembHng 
men  and  told  them  that  my  little  child  re- 
membered. Not  one  doubted ;  all  believed 
and  were  at  peace.  By-and-bye  I  went  to  her 
again.  She  was  asleep.  The  white  lids  lay 
over  her  dark,  deep  eyes,  and  hid  their  mean- 
ing. But  the  old,  mysterious,  all -knowing 
smile  rested  about  the  silent  lips,  and  I  was 
not  afraid.  Nor  am  I  afraid  now.  No, 
though  she  never  wakened.  Has  she  not 
given  me  the  secret  she  held  ? 


A   TRANSIENT 


A  TRANSIENT 


'TwAS  when  I  was  keeping  the  Banks  House 
over  to  Bentley  Centre,  more'n  thirty  year 
ago.  Mr.  Harris  had  been  dead  quite  a  spell, 
and  I  was  running  the  house  alone  and  doing 
well.  Mother  lived  with  me,  but  she  was  too 
old  to  do  muqji,  and  feeble  anyway.  'Twas 
the  only  tavern  in  the  Centre,  and  open  all 
the  year  round,  but  we  didn't  have  many 
folks  except  in  summer.  But  from  the  last 
of  June  'way  into  September  I  had  a  nice  lot 
of  summer  boarders  every  year,  and  we  had 
a  good  many  transients,  stopping  over  for 
dinner,  and  often  all  night  too,  with  supper 
and  breakfast.  There  wasn't  much  to  bring 
business  people.  You've  been  there,  haven't 
you  ?  It's  just  a  quiet  little  place,  but  it's 
got  the  mountains  all  round  it,  making  it 
sightly  and  nice,  and  plenty  of  green,  cool, 
L  i6i 


A    TRANSIENT 

woodsy  spots  to  walk  or  sit  in.     And  that's 
what  summer  boarders  like. 

The  transients  was  most  generally  folks 
that  was  travelling  for  pleasure  through  the 
mountains  and  on  their  way  to  the  Gorge  or 
back.  Sometimes  farmers  come  along  on 
their  way  to  Westboro'  to  'tend  the  county 
fair,  or  horse  men  for  the  races,  and  then  again 
there'd  be  a  runner  or  two  travelling  for 
some  city  store  or  other.  But  the  transient 
you  asked  me  to  tell  you  about — put  up  to  it, 
as  you  said,  by  Dr.  Little — was  another  sort. 
The  first  time  I  saw  him — I  remember  it  as 
well  as  if  'twas  last  week — was  the  summer 
Mis*  Haskins's  folks  boarded  with  me.  You 
know  they're  among  the  first  families,  as  to 
standing,  in  the  State,  and  'twas  a  great  thing 
for  my  house,  and  for  the  whole  town,  for 
that  matter,  to  have  them  put  up  there.  Mis' 
Haskins  wasn't  well  that  year,  and  was  dread- 
ful nervous  and  whimsy.  So  they  thought 
they'd  go  to  some  real  quiet  kind  of  place,  in- 
stead of  a  big  hotel,  as  they'd  generally  done. 
She  was  pretty  hard  to  please,  but  I  did  my 
best,  and  she  got  along  well  enough,  consider- 
ing. But  one  day  everything  appeared  to  go 
162 


A    TRANSIENT 

wrong,  seems  's  if.  There  wasn't  any  other 
boarders  that  time — 'twas  the  last  of  June — 
but  the  Haskins  folks  and  the  Sperrys  from 
Derby.  And  they  set  all  together  at  meals 
to  the  long  table  by  the  south  windows, 
where  'twas  light  and  airy.  There  was  twelve 
of  'em,  five  each  side  and  one  to  each  end, 
and  'twould  have  held  sixteen  comfortable. 
Well,  that  day  the  whole  party'd  been  out 
driving  in  two  wagons,  over  to  the  east  vil- 
lage and  Wells  Pond.  They'd  had  dinner  put 
back  to  half -past  one,  and  'twas  all  ready 
when  they  come  in.  They'd  called  at  Miss 
Leonard's  on  their  way  home,  and  brought  a 
young  lady  that  was  boarding  there,  a  friend 
of  Miss  Ellen  Sperry's,  back  with  them.  I 
was  in  the  kitchen,  dishing  up,  when  I  heerd 
'em  all  trooping  in  together  to  the  table,  and 
then  the  chairs  scraping  as  they  pulled  'em 
out  to  set  down.  Then  I  heerd  a  kind  of  loud 
speaking  out,  and  some  talking  back,  and  a 
sort  of  fuss,  and  next  moment  Sarah  Willett, 
the  table  girl,  come  running  out.  And  she 
says,  a  little  flustered,  "  Mis'  Haskins  won't 
set  down  and  won't  let  nobody  else  set  down, 
'cause  there's  too  many  folks  to  the  table." 
163 


A    TRANSIENT 

I  knew  she'd  got  it  wrong  some  way,  for, 
as  I  said  before,  the  table  would  accommodate 
sixteen  easy,  and  I  went  right  in.  They  was 
all  standing  up  by  their  chairs,  looking  real 
hungry  and  cross,  and  Mis'  Haskins  was  talk- 
ing in  a  kind  of  scolding,  upset  way.  "  No,  I 
won't  do  it,"  she  says,  "  it's  a-tempting  Provi- 
dence ;  it's  as  much  as  my  life's  worth.  No, 
no,  no  !"  and  she  begun  to  sort  of  cry. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  says  I.  "Is 
anything  wrong.  Mis'  Haskins  ?"  And  then 
two  or  three  of  them  spoke  up  all  to  once, 
and  I  got  to  understand  that  there  was  thir- 
teen to  set  at  that  table,  and  that  was  bad 
luck.  I  don't  recollect  that  I'd  ever  heerd  of 
that  sign  before,  though  I've  often  read  about 
it  late  years  and  seen  a  few  folks  that  held 
by  it.  But  it  wasn't  one  of  our  sayings  there 
in  Bentley.  Thirteen  wasn't  any  worse  than 
any  other  number  there ;  a  little  better, 
maybe,  for  it  went  by  the  name  of  a  baker's 
dozen,  and  generally  meantsomething  thrown 
in,  which  is  always  satisfying  in  this  world. 
But  I  see  at  once  'twas  a  sign  Mis'  Haskins 
believed  in,  and  that  she  was  terrible  upset. 
But  what  in  the  world  could  I  do  ?  They  was 
164 


A    TRANSIENT 

all  one  party  and  all  hungry,  and  I  couldn't 
ask  any  one  of  them  to  leave  the  table,  and 
there  wasn't  another  boarder  in  the  house  to 
call  in.  I  was  at  my  wits'  end,  and  didn't 
know  what  I'd  better  do,  when  all  of  a  sudden, 
but  very  quiet,  a  man  come  into  the  door 
that  led  out  of  the  front  hall  and  walked 
right  up  to  the  table.  He  was  an  under-size, 
homely  looking  man,  but  he  had  a  real  pleas- 
ant kind  of  face,  a  mite  freckled,  and  slick, 
thinnish  red  hair — a  perfect  stranger  to  me. 
Everybody  stopped  talking  and  turned  to 
look  at  him.  He  sort  of  bowed  to  us  all,  and 
says,  in  a  bashful  kind  of  way  but  real  friend- 
ly, "  Don't  let  me  put  you  to  any  trouble," 
he  says ;  "  I'm  only  a  transient  for  dinner." 
Well,  I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  any  one  in 
all  my  life.  And  all  the  folks  was  tickled  to 
death,  and  showed  it.  You'd  have  thought 
he'd  been  a  bit  surprised  at  the  way  they 
give  him  a  welcome  and  made  room  for  him, 
but  he  took  it  as  calm  as  you  please,  and 
dropped  right  into  the  chair  Sarah  Willett  set 
for  him,  without  a  word. 

Sarah  said  afterwards  that  he  didn't  hard- 
ly ^y  anything  through  the  meal,  but  eat 
165 


A    TRANSIENT 

hearty,  as  if  he  enjoyed  his  victuals.  Only 
once,  when  young  Mr.  Sperry  spoke  to  him 
direct  and  told  him  what  a  fix  he'd  helped 
'em  out  of,  and  how  much  they  was  obleeged 
to  him  for  happening  in,  he  says,  "  Don't 
speak  of  it ;  'tain't  anything,"  and  went  on 
with  his  dinner.  I  meant  to  speak  to  him 
myself  before  he  got  away,  but  I  was  kept  by 
one  thing  and  another,  and  when  I  got  into 
the  office  at  last,  he'd  gone.  He  paid  his 
half-dollar  to  Parker  Smith,  who  was  clerk- 
ing for  us  that  season,  and  went  off.  "  Did 
he  have  a  team,"  I  says  to  Parker,  "  or  was 
he  afoot  ?"  And  Parker  didn't  know,  hadn't 
took  notice.  Well,  of  course  there  isn't  any- 
thing wonderful  in  that  part  of  the  story. 
'Twas  lucky  he  happened  along  just  that 
minute,  that's  all.  And  I  never  should  have 
thought  of  the  man  again  but  for  what  come 
after. 

'Twas  two  or  three  weeks  after  that,  one 
hot  day  in  July,  that  I  had  the  biggest  scare 
of  my  whole  life,  I  believe.  Some  ways  or 
other  I'd  turned  my  ankle,  and  'twas  swelled 
up  and  stiff  so's  I  couldn't  put  my  foot  to  the 
floor.  I  was  up  in  my  bedroom,  setting  in 
i66 


A    TRANSIENT 

my  rocking-chair,  with  my  foot  all  wrapped 
up  with  cloths  wet  with  opedildoc  and  up  on 
a  cricket.  All  the  boarders  was  off  one  way 
or  other,  except  Mis'  Skinner.  She  was  in 
her  room  with  Janie,  her  little  girl.  After  a 
spell  she  come  over  to  my  room  with  her 
bonnet  on  and  hold  of  Janie's  hand,  and  asked 
me  if  she  could  leave  the  child  there  with  me 
for  a  few  minutes  while  she  went  over  to  the 
post  -  office.  "  She  don't  need  any  looking 
after,  Mis'  Harris,"  she  says.  "She'll  play 
round  the  room  real  good  and  quiet,  only  I 
don't  exactly  like  to  leave  her  all  alone."  I 
always  liked  children,  and  Janie  was  a  favor- 
ite of  mine,  so  of  course  I  said  let  her  stay. 
Well,  she  trotted  around  and  looked  at  my 
things  and  played  with  her  dolly.  I  was 
knitting,  hard  at  work  on  a  new  kind  of  bed- 
spread with  a  real  mixed-up  pattern  Miss  Lee 
had  been  learning  me.  I  got  to  the  most  tick- 
lish place  in  it,  where  the  holes  come  in,  and 
I  was  looking  close  at  it  and  saying  over  to 
myself,  "  Put  your  thread  over  and  knit  one, 
put  your  thread  over  and  narrer,  knit  three 
plain,"  when  I  heerd  a  little  noise.  I  looked 
up  quick,  recollecting  the  child — oh  dear, 
167 


A    TRANSIENT 

dear,  dear !  My  south  window  was  wide 
open,  and  there  was  a  morning-glory  vine 
climbing  up  on  some  strings  just  outside. 
There  was  pink  and  blue  and  white  flowers 
on  it,  all  shut  up  and  twisted,  of  course,  at 
that  time  o'  day,  but  they  looked  bright  and 
pretty  to  Janie.  So  she'd  climbed  up  in  a 
chair  and  tried  to  reach  'em.  The  chair'd 
tipped,  and  she'd  slipped  out,  and — oh  !  there 
she  was  hanging  with  her  little  white  frock 
catched  on  the  thing  the  green  blinds  fasten 
to.  Before  the  dress  give  way,  before  I  could 
holler  out,  before — oh,  anything — I  see  some 
one  right  in  my  room  step  up  quick  behind 
the  child,  catch  her  up  in  his  arms,  unhitch 
her  frock,  and  put  her  down  on  the  carpet 
close  up  to  me.  For  a  spell  I  didn't  think  of 
anything  but  Janie  and  her  being  safe  and 
sound.  I  kept  stroking  her  yellow  head  as 
she  leaned  it  up  agin  ray  dress,  and  I  felt 
sort  of  sick  and  head-swimmy.  Then  I  heerd 
the  door  creak,  and  when  I  looked  up  there 
was  a  man  going  out.  He  was  an  under-size, 
homely  looking  man,  with  a  real  pleasant 
freckly  face  and  thin  reddish  hair,  and  I  see 
he  was  the  transient  that  helped  us  out  at 
i68 


A    TRANSIENT 

the  table  that  day  I  was  telling  about,  I  called 
out  to  him  to  stop,  and  begun  to  pour  it  all 
out  how  thankful  and  obleeged  I  was  and  all, 
but  he  only  says,  very  quiet,  "  Don't  speak  of 
it ;  'tain't  anything,"  he  says.  Then  he  mum- 
bles out  sort  of  quick  and  bashful  something 
about  how  he  was  passing,  and  see  I  needed  a 
little  help,  and  come  in.  I  couldn't  hear  him 
very  plain,  and  then  he  was  gone.  I  couldn't 
follow  him,  'count  of  my  lame  foot,  and  he 
didn't  appear  to  hear  when  I  called  out  to 
him  again.  So  off  he  went  without  any  more 
thanks  from  me  or  anybody. 

Well,  that  time  I  did  ask  a  heap  of  ques- 
tions about  him,  but  nobody  seemed  to  know 
a  thing.  Folks  had  seen  him  coming  along 
the  street,  and  Mary  Willey  see  him  running 
like  a  streak  through  our  front  gate  and  into 
the  house  that  afternoon.  But  nobody  knew 
who  he  was,  nor  which  way  he  come  from  or 
went  to. 

I  disremember  just  what  was  the  next  time 
I  saw  him.  Mebbe  'twas  the  day  Hiram 
Merrit's  cows  broke  into  our  cornfield.  There 
wasn't  any  men  folks  about,  but  Aleck  Brace, 
a  little  fellow  not  more'n  twelve  year  old, 
169 


A    TRANSIENT 

was  in  the  barn,  and  he  run  out  to  see  if  he 
could  drive  'em  out.  I  knew  he  couldn't  do 
it  alone,  and  I  was  just  starting  out  myself, 
though  my  ankle  wasn't  strong  yet  a  while, 
when  I  see  the  cows  was  all  running  out  o' 
the  field,  and  there  was  a  man  helping  Aleck 
drive  'em.  I  didn't  get  a  chance  to  speak  to 
the  boy  till  'most  night,  and  then  I  asked 
him  who  it  was  helped  him  get  the  cows  out. 
He  said  'twas  a  stranger  to  him,  a  man  that 
was  going  by  and  see  the  trouble.  Said  he 
was  a  smallish  man,  with  slinky  red  hair  and 
freckled  as  a  turkey  egg,  but  a  real  friendly 
way  with  him.  I  guessed  in  a  minute  'twas 
that  transient  again. 

I  don't  know  but  'twas  afore  that,  after  all, 
that  he  turned  up  just  at  the  very  minute 
the  keeping-room  chimney  got  afire.  I  was 
out  myself,  and  there  wasn't  anybody  down- 
stairs but  Sarah  Willett  and  old  Aunty  Mills 
that  was  turning  and  sewing  over  the  breadths 
of  the  carpet,  and  up-stairs  there  wasn't  any 
gentlemen,  only  two  or  three  of  the  ladies. 
I  heerd  about  it  as  I  was  coming  up  the 
street,  and  I  run  home  as  fast  as  I  could.  But 
when  I  got  there  'twas  all  out  and  Sarah  was 
170 


A    TRANSIENT 

sweeping  up  the  soot.  She  said  they'd  had 
a  dreadful  scare,  but  just  's  they  was  'most 
distracted  somebody  run  in  and  emptied  a 
bag  of  salt  on  the  fire — 'twas  only  a  blaze  of 
papers  Sarah  'd  been  burning  to  get  'em  out 
of  the  way — and  it  put  it  right  out.  Neither 
she  nor  Aunty  Mills  had  noticed  who  done 
it.  But  Parker  Smith,  the  clerk,  come  in  a 
spell  afterwards,  and  he  says,  "I  see  that 
sandy-haired  man  just  now,  that  was  here  to 
dinner  the  day  Mis'  Haskins  had  the  tan- 
trums." So  I  felt  certain  sure  that  transient 
had  helped  me  out  again. 

'Twas  the  queerest  thing.  He  never  went 
anywhere  else,  never  give  assistance  to  any 
of  the  neighbors,  and  nobody  knew  who  or 
what  he  was.  But  he  was  always  and  forever 
turning  up  in  the  very  nick,  yes,  the  nickest 
of  time,  when  I  needed  help  or  got  into  any 
scrape  or  mess.  They  wasn't  all  big  things 
he  done,  some  was  little  ;  they  wasn't  all  sol- 
emn things,  some  was  real  comical.  Why, 
once  I'd  gone  over  to  Petersville  with  Mis' 
Bryan  to  have  a  pictur'  took  of  her  baby. 
It  was  fretty  with  its  teeth,  and  wouldn't  look 
pleasant,  all  the  pictur'  man  and  the  rest  of 
171 


A    TRANSIENT 

us  could  do.  'Twas  getting  late,  and  I'd  got 
to  be  home  to  make  tea-rusk  for  supper.  I 
was  real  nervous,  but  just  then  a  man  come 
in,  or  was  in,  for  I  didn't  see  him  open  the 
door.  He  stepped  up  in  front  of  the  baby, 
just  where  the  pictur'  thing  couldn't  take 
him,  and  he  begun  to  move  his  hands  up  and 
down,  and  wiggle  his  feet,  and  shake  his  head 
all  covered  with  smooth  stringy  red  hair,  and 
twist  his  homely,  freckled  face  in  such  a  ri- 
dic'lous  way  that  the  baby,  let  alone  the  rest 
of  us,  just  laughed  right  out,  and  I've  got  the 
pictur'  of  it  with  the  laugh  all  sot  on  his  little 
countenance.  'Course  'twas  that  transient. 
But  he  wouldn't  stop  to  say  a  single  word, 
and  was  off  before  we  could  thank  him. 

Another  time  I'd  been  out  in  the  rain  and 
got  wet,  and  I  catched  cold.  I  felt  sick  all 
over,  and  that  night  I  thought  I'd  take  some 
hot  peppermint  tea.  I  went  to  the  closet  for 
the  peppermint,  and  there  was  the  bottle  all 
empty  ;  not  a  single  drop  left.  Now  if  there's 
a  thing  I  pride  myself  on,  it's  my  never  being 
out  of  peppermint.  It's  the  one  thing  that 
every  respectable  family  should  keep  in  the 
house.  Aunt  Nancy  Bartlett  used  to  say 
172 


A    TRANSIENT 

that  to  be  without  peppermint  in  the  house 
overnight  was  temptin'  Providence,  and  I 
guess  she  was  about  right.  It's  the  one  thing 
I  know  that's  hot  and  cold  to  the  same  time. 
So,  nat'rally,  it's  good  for  folks  that's  hot- 
blooded  and  feverish,  and  for  people  that's 
peaked  and  shivery.  But  there  I  was  with- 
out a  drop  in  the  house,  and  late  in  the  even- 
ing, too.  Just  then  I  thought  I  heerd  a  noise 
at  the  back  of  the  house.  I  went  to  my  win- 
dow and  listened,  but  I  couldn't  hear  any- 
thing. Pretty  soon  I  felt  sure  there  was 
steps  in  the  yard,  and  all  of  a  sudden  I  recol- 
lected I  hadn't  bolted  the  side  door.  I  took 
a  candle  and  run  down-stairs.  I  looked  about 
a  little,  and  see  there  wa'n't  nothing  wrong  ; 
then  I  fastened  the  door  and  started  to  go 
up-stairs.  I  don't  know  what  'twas  made  me 
turn  round  and  look  at  the  clock  that  stood 
on  a  little  shelf  in  the  entry.  Just  as  I  done 
it  I  see  a  bottle  standing  there  by  the  box  of 
matches,  and  I  reached  up  and  took  hold  of 
it.  It  was  a  middlin'-size  bottle,  and  'twas 
brimful  of  peppermint  right  up  to  the  cork, 
as  if  it  had  just  come  out  of  Deacon  Hub- 
bard's store. 

173 


A    TRANSIENT 

Do  you  s'pose  I  didn't  know,  just  as  well 
as  if  I'd  seen  him,  that  'twas  that  friendly- 
transient  done  that  ? 

But  I  tell  you  there  was  another  kind  of 
help  that  man  fetched  me  once,  and  I'll  never 
forget  it  to  my  dying  day.  I  told  you  mother 
was  living  with  me  then.  She  was  most 
eighty,  and  she  failed  up  fast  that  summer. 
The  hot  weather  was  too  much  for  her,  and 
she  grew  weaker,  and  one  day  in  August — 
'twas  the  25th — we  see  plain  she  was  a-dying. 
Dr.  More  had  been  and  gone,  saying  she 
wouldn't  last  many  hours,  and  there  wasn't 
anything  he  could  do.  She  hadn't  sensed 
anything  all  day,  and  her  eyes  was  shut.  I 
was  setting  close  by  her,  and  Libby  States, 
my  niece-in-law,  nigh  by.  There  wasn't  any- 
body else  in  the  room.  All  of  a  sudden  I  see 
ma  move  her  lips  as  if  she  was  trying  to 
speak,  but  she  didn't  open  her  eyes.  I  leaned 
over  her  and  says,  "What  is  it,  ma?"  She 
sort  of  whispers,  "  Sing  '  How — firm — a — 
foundation ' — "  and  I  knew  she  wanted  her 
favorite  hymn.  Now  I  never  could  sing  a 
note  in  my  life,  hadn't  any  ear  or  voice  or 
idee  of  tune,  besides  being  all  choky  with 
174 


A    TRANSIENT 

sorrow  now.  Libby  was  crying  so  hard  she 
couldn't  raise  a  note.  I  tried  to  say  the 
hymn  over,  instead  of  singing  it,  but  I  see 
that  didn't  satisfy  ma.  She'd  always  been 
fond  of  music,  sung  in  the  choir  when  she 
was  young.  Her  poor  dry  lips  moved  again, 
and  she  says,  "  Sing,  sing  !"  Oh  dear,  what 
wouldn't  I've  given  to  do  what  she  wanted  ! 
Just  then  I  heerd  a  voice  begin  the  old  hymn 
to  the  old  tune,  the  very  one  ma  wanted. 
The  door  was  on  a  jar,  and  somebody  was 
singing  just  outside  in  the  entry.  'T wasn't 
much  of  a  voice ;  it  flatted  terribly,  and  it 
cracked  on  every  single  high  note,  but  it 
satisfied  mother.  She  sort  of  smiled,  and 
she  kept  her  thin,  wrinkled  old  hands — is 
there  anything  on  this  whole  earth  like  your 
mother's  hands? — moving  a  little  on  the  sheet 
to  keep  time.  The  voice  went  right  through 
the  whole  hymn — a  real  long  one,  you  know  ; 
and  just  as  it  come  to 

"  He'll  never,  no,  never,  no,  never  forsake," 

ma  stopped  moving  her  hands,  and  sort  of 

whispers,   "Never  —  forsake  —  "    and    then, 

"  Ann  "  (that's  my  name),  and  a  second  after 

175 


A    TRANSIENT 

she  says,  very  softly,  "  Nathan,"  and  she  was 
gone, 

Nathan  was  my  only  brother,  a  little  fellow 
dead  and  buried  twenty  year  before,  but 
mother'd  never  forgot  him.  I  could  just  re- 
member him  —  a  cute,  homely  little  fellow, 
with  sandy  hair  that  never  would  curl,  and  a 
pleasant  little  face  tanned  and  freckled  with 
being  out-doors.  But  ma  thought  there  never 
was  such  a  child,  said  he  was  too  good  to 
live,  always  doing  things  for  folks,  so  helpful 
and  self-denying.  She  said  he  was  always 
talking  of  how  he  was  going  to  spend  his 
whole  life,  just  helping  folks  and  getting  'em 
out  of  trouble,  partic'lar  his  own  folks.  He 
died,  poor  young  one  !  when  he  was  nine  year 
old  ;  so  he  never  had  much  chance  to  show 
what  a  helper  he  could  be.  But  here  was 
ma  thinking  of  him,  and  saying  his  name 
over  the  very  last  thing. 

I  mustn't  make  this  story  too  long  and  tire 
you  all  out,  so  I  won't  tell  you  how  I  felt  to 
lose  my  mother,  and  the  lonesome  time  that 
come  afterwards.  I  found  out  what  I'd  felt 
pretty  sure  of  all  the  time — that  'twas  my 
friend,  the  transient,  that  had  come  in  just 
176 


A    TRANSIENT 

the  very  minute  he  was  needed  and  sung  that 
hymn  for  ma.  I  didn't  see  him  myself,  but 
Sarah  Willett  met  him  on  the  stairs,  and 
knew  him  right  away.  I  didn't  think  of  any- 
thing for  a  spell  but  mother  and  the  last 
things  I  could  do  for  her.  But  after  the 
funeral  I  begun  to  remember  what  a  comfort 
the  hymn  had  been  to  her,  and  I  was  bound 
to  find  out  something  about  that  man.  But 
'twasn't  any  good,  all  my  questions  and 
searching  out.  Nobody  knew  who  he  was, 
or'd  ever  had  any  talk  with  him,  though  a  lot 
of  folks  had  seen  him  one  time  or  another, 
and  always  pretty  close  to  my  house. 

'Twas  a  few  weeks  after  that  time,  one 
day  in  September,  that  Dr.  More  stopped  at 
my  door  in  his  buggy.  He  said  he  was  go- 
ing to  see  a  sick  woman  over  to  North  Bent- 
ley,  and  as  he  should  have  to  pass  right  by 
the  Red  Hill  burying-ground,  where  ma  was, 
he  thought  maybe  I'd  like  to  go  out  there 
with  him.  I  was  glad  of  the  chance,  for  I 
hadn't  been  there  since  the  funeral,  and  I 
went  up-stairs  to  put  on  my  things.  As  I 
was  hurrying,  so's  not  to  keep  the  doctor 
waiting,  I  thought  to  myself  that  I  wished  I 

M  177 


A    TRANSIENT 

had  some  flowers  to  put  on  mother's  grave. 
She  was  a  master-hand  for  flowers,  could  al- 
ways make  them  grow  and  bloom.  And  she 
set  a  great  deal  by  the  wild  flowers  'round 
Bentley,  and  knew  'em  all  apart.  "  It's  just 
the  time,"  I  says  to  myself,  "  for  blind  gentian 
that  ma  always  liked  so,  and  the  twisted- 
stalk  and  everlastings.  And  goldenrod  and 
blue  daisies  is  out  a  plenty.  But  the  doctor 
'11  be  in  a  hurry,  and  I  can't  ask  him  to  stop 
for  me  to  pick  any."  I  run  down-stairs  and 
out  to  the  buggy.  Just  as  I  got  in,  Dr.  More 
handed  me  a  big  bunch  of  posies,  and  says  : 
"  Here's  your  flowers.  I'm  glad  you  had 
them  ready." 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  !"  I  says.  "  Where 
did  these  come  from  ?" 

Dr.  More  looked  real  surprised,  and  says, 
"  Why,  I  thought  you  sent  them  out !  A  man 
fetched  them  here  to  me  just  now,  and  says, 
'  Here's  some  flowers  for  Mis'  Harris.*  " 

"  What  man  ?"  I  says. 

"He  was  a  stranger  J;o  me,"  says  the  doc- 
tor, "and  I  didn't  take  partic'lar  notice  of 
him." 

But  I  knew  who  'twas  well  enough.    There 
178 


A    TRANSIENT 

wasn't  but  one  person  on  the  wliole  airth  that 
would  'a'  happened  along  with  just  them 
posies  at  just  that  minute.  'Twas  that  tran- 
sient again.  I  looked  at  the  flowers  as  we 
rode  along.  There  was  blind  gentians,  pur- 
ply  blue,  with  their  green  leaves  a  mite 
streaky  and  spotty.  Mother  she  was  from 
Vermont,  and  she  called  them  dumb  fox- 
gloves. You  know  what  I  mean — them  flow- 
ers that's  always  buds  and  never  open.  And 
there  was  a  lot  of  twisted-stalk,  the  big  kind 
that  comes  late,  with  a  spike  of  frosty-look- 
ing white  flowers  that  smell  just  the  way  a 
peach-pit  tastes.  And  there  was  everlastings 
and  goldenrod  and  blue  daisies — all  the  things 
ma'd  been  fond  of  and  I'd  been  wishing  for. 

Well,  then  I  just  had  to  tell  Dr.  More  all 
about  it.  This  last  thing  had  somehow  stirred 
me  all  up,  and  I  begun  to  think  there  was 
something  a  good  deal  out  of  the  common 
about  this  man  and  his  doings.  I  was  dread- 
ful excited,  and  I  let  the  doctor  have  the 
whole  story.  I  told  him  all  about  it,  all  the 
things  that  had  happened  to  me,  and  all  the 
times  this  man  had  helped  me  out,  and  how 
I  couldn't  find  out  anything  about  him,  and 
179 


A    TRANSIENT 

couldn't  get  a  word  with  him,  and  nobody 
could,  and  all  that.  But,  some  ways  or  other, 
it  didn't  seem  to  make  much  impression  on 
the  doctor.  He  didn't  appear  to  think  'twas 
no  great  of  a  myst'ry,  nothing  very  amazing, 
after  all.  I  guess  I  didn't  tell  it  just  right, 
mebbe.  'Tany  rate,  he  said  things  only'd 
happened  so ;  he  dare  say  the  man  was  all 
right,  and  we'd  find  out  all  about  him  some 
time.  Said  he  was  a  respectable  -  looking 
man,  and  pleasant  spoken,  and  he'd  surmised 
at  first  he  was  some  relative  of  mine  that 
was  staying  to  my  house.  I  suppose  he 
meant  the  man  favored  my  family.  He  said 
women  folks  was  given  to  imaginings  and 
such.  Dr.  More  was  a  single  man,  and  they 
said  he'd  been  disappointed  when  he  was 
young. 

I  disremember  how  long  'twas  before  I  see 
the  man  again,  or  whether  I  ever  did  see  him 
more'n  once  after  that  time.  But  any  ways, 
I  recollect  the  last  time,  and  everything  that 
happened  then,  as  well  as  if  'twas  last  week. 
'Twas  in  October,  the  very  beginning  of  the 
month.  All  my  boarders  had  been  gone  some 
time.  I  was  doing  my  own  work,  for  I  didn't 
1 80 


A    TRANSIENT 

need  any  help  when  I  was  alone,  except  Wells 
Sanford  for  out-door  chores.  'Twas  after  five 
o'clock  one  afternoon  I  see  a  team  drive  up 
to  my  door  and  stop,  and  there  was  a  wagon- 
ful  of  folks  come  visiting.  They  was  my  re- 
lations from  Danby,  Cousin  Levi  Bourne's 
folks  —  him  and  his  wife,  and  her  mother 
and  Joshua,  and  his  wife  and  little  Abigail. 
They'd  come  to  have  supper  and  spend  the 
night.  I  was  dreadful  glad  to  see  'em,  and 
made  'em  real  welcome.  I  had  plenty  of  things 
in  the  house  to  do  with,  and  I  knew  I  could 
get  'em  up  a  good  supper  in  no  time.  But 
who  was  going  to  wait  on  them  at  table  while 
I  was  cooking,  frying  their  griddle-cakes  and 
all  ?  'Twas  kind  of  chilly  that  day,  and  I  made 
'em  all  set  up  to  the  wood  fire  in  the  keep-, 
ing-room,  and  I  went  out  to  the  kitchen  to 
see  what  I  could  do.  I  set  to  work  beating 
up  biscuit  and  making  my  batter  for  the 
cakes,  and  chopping  up  the  cold  beef  and 
potatoes  for  hash,  when  I  heerd  a  man's  step 
in  the  back  entry.  '  Then  some  one  come  to 
the  door  and  looked  in.  'Twas  kind  of  dark, 
and  I  couldn't  see  at  first,  but  I  heerd  a  man's 
voice  say,  "  Don't  put  yourself  out  any,  Mis' 
i8i 


A    TRANSIENT 

Harris  ;  it's  only  a  transient  for  supper,"  and 
I  knew  in  one  minute  'twas  that  man. 

I  was  in  such  a  hurry,  and  so  nervy  and 
flustered,  that  somehow  I  didn't  think  of  how 
I'd  wanted  to  see  him,  and  all  I  wanted  to 
say.  But  I  just  says,  "  Deary  me,  another 
for  supper,  and  me  with  not  a  soul  in  the 
house  to  help  me." 

He  come  in  real  quiet,  set  his  hat  down  on 
the  table,  and  says,  very  pleasant  and  soft : 
"  Let  me  help  ye.  Mis'  Harris.  I'm  quite  a 
hand  to  help,  I  am." 

And  if  you'll  believe  me,  before  I  could  say 
a  word  he  set  to  work.  He  set  the  table, 
getting  out  the  crockery  without  asking  me  a 
thing,  going  in  and  out  very  quick  and  still, 
laying  the  napkins  around,  and  putting  on 
the  plates  and  knives  and  forks.  He  fixed  it 
real  nice,  but  in  a  kind  of  an  old-fashioned 
way.  When  I  went  in  to  take  a  look  at  it, 
I  declare  it  looked  for  all  the  world  like  my 
mother's  tea-table  when  I  was  a  young  one  ; 
all  the  more  because  he'd  used  the  old  blue 
and  white  crockery  and  some  other  odd  dishes 
ma'd  left  to  me.  He  helped  me  about  every 
single  thing ;  he  was  real  handy  for  a  man, 
182 


A    TRANSIENT 

and  saved  me  lots  of  steps  and  trouble.  Pret- 
ty soon  he  says,  still  just  as  easy  and  quiet, 
"  I  suppose  you'd  like  to  have  me  wait  on 
table,"  he  says.  "  I'm  used  to  waitin',  and 
there  ain't  nothin'  I  like  so  much  as  helpin' 
folks  to  things,"  I  tell  you  I  was  pleased. 
Seems  queer  now  that  I  took  it  so  easy  and 
let  a  man  that  had  come  for  his  own  supper 
work  around  so,  but  it  seemed  to  come  real 
nat'ral  then.  Well,  he  waited  on  table,  and 
I  never  see  any  one  do  better,  and  so  they  all 
said,  Levi  told  me  afterwards  that  he  waited 
on  them  more's  if  he  was  a  friend  doing  for 
'em  than  like  paid  help.  He  put  a  big  book 
in  one  of  the  chairs  for  little  Abigail  to  set 
on,  and  he  lifted  her  up  on  it  as  if  he  was  her 
pa,  and  pinned  her  napkin  round  her  neck 
just  as  nice.  Old  Mis'  Fish,  Levi's  wife's  moth- 
er, was  getting  old  and  sort  of  childish,  and 
when  he  passed  the  biscuit  to  her  she  looked 
up  at  him,  and  she  says  :  "  How  air  ye,  sir  ? 
Your  face  is  real  familiar,  but  I  disremember 
your  name.  How  do  you  call  yourself  ?"  she 
says.  "You  can  call  me  Nathan,"  he  says, 
very  pleasant  and  soft, 

I  didn't  hear  nor  know  anything  about  it 
183 


A    TRANSIENT 

till  they  told  me  afterwards.  He  was  real 
attentive  to  the  old  lady,  wrapping  her  knit 
shawl  around  her  every  time  it  slipped  off, 
and  picking  up  her  specs  when  she  dropped 
'em.  They  said  he  had  a  real  friendly  way 
with  him,  urging  'em  to  eat,  pressing  the 
victuals  on  'em,  and  doing  a  good  deal  more'n 
there  was  any  call  for.  Bime-by  they  fin- 
ished, and  I  heerd  their  chairs  scrape,  and 
then  they  went  into  the  keeping-room  again. 
I  run  in  for  a  minute  to  tell  'em  I'd  be  ready 
pretty  soon  to  visit  with  'em,  and  they  begun 
to  ask  me  about  the  man  that  waited  on  ta- 
ble. Levi  said  he  thought  first  he  might  be 
a  relation — he  had  a  kind  of  family  look — 
and  when  he  told  'em  his  name  was  Nathan, 
he  was  pretty  sure  of  it,  because  that  had 
been  a  great  name  among  the  Bourneses  for 
generations.  But  I  told  him  'twa'n't  so  ;  the 
man  was  'most  a  stranger,  and  I  didn't  even 
know  till  that  minute  his  name  was  Nathan. 
But  I  said  that  bime-by  I'd  come  in  and  tell 
'em  something  remarkable  about  this  tran- 
sient and  the  time  I'd  had  with  him. 

Then  I  went  back  into  the  dining-room. 
The  man  was  there  waiting  for  me,  though 
184 


A    TRANSIENT 

I'd  been  dreadful  afraid  he'd  go  off  in  his  ag- 
gravating way  before  I  come  back.  He'd 
seemed  real  taken  with  my  old  chiny,  and  he 
was  standing  by  the  table  with  a  piece  of  it 
in  his  hand.  'Twas  a  queer,  old-fashioned 
thing — a  mug — sort  of  yellowish  white,  with 
a  black  pictur'  on  it,  and  it  had  been  my 
little  brother  Nathan's  ;  he'd  always  drunk 
his  milk  out  of  it.  He  set  it  down  real  care- 
ful 's  I  come  in,  and  I  says  :  "  Now  you  and 
me,  we  must  have  our  supper.  I'll  run  out 
and  put  the  griddle  on  and  fry  some  hot 
cakes,  and  I'll  be  back  in  a  jiffy.  But  first," 
I  says,  "  I  must  know  what  to  call  you,  for  I 
'ain't  an  idee  what  your  name  is." 

He  says,  kind  of  bashful  like,  "  You  might 
call  me  Nathan." 

'*  But  that's  your  first  name,  I  suppose,"  I 
says. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  says,  with  a  real  pleas- 
ant look  on  his  face,  "  that's  my  very  first 
name." 

"And  might  I  ask  your  last  one,"  I  says, 
"  so's  to  call  you  by  it  ?" 

He  waited  a  minute,  and  then  he  says, 
"  You  wouldn't  know  any  better  if  I  was  to 
185 


A    TRANSIENT 

tell  you ;  you  wouldn't  understand  it ;  but 
Nathan's  my  first  name." 

I  thought  that  was  kind  of  queer,  but  I 
only  said,  "Well,  when  I  bring  in  your  sup- 
per we  must  have  a  little  talk.  For  you 
know  well  enough,"  I  says,  smiling,  and  nod- 
ding my  head  at  him,  "  that  there's  a  good 
many  things  to  be  gone  over  betwixt  you 
and  me,  and  there's  a  sight  of  things  I'm 
beholden  to  you  for,  and  never  a  chance  be- 
fore to  say  obleeged  to  ye." 

"  'Tain't  worth  speaking  of.  Mis'  Harris," 
he  says,  in  his  softly  way.  '*  I  was  dreadful 
glad  to  help  ye.  There  ain't  nothin'  I  set 
by  more'n  helpin'  people,  partic'lar  my  own 
folks." 

"What  did  he  mean  by  that?"  I  asks  my- 
self, as  I  fried  the  griddle-cakes  and  drawed 
some  fresh  tea.  "  I  ain't  his  folks  as  I  know; 
mebbe  he  means  his  fellow  -  bein's  or  his 
neighbors.     I  mean  to  ask  him." 

But  I  never  done  it.  He  was  gone  when  I 
went  back  into  the  dining-room,  and  sure's  I 
live  and  breathe,  from  that  day  to  this  I've 
never  catched  a  sight  of  that  man — never, 
never,  never.  Nobody  see  him  go,  but  Levi 
x$6 


A    TRANSIENT 

heerd  the  side  door  shut,  and  then  steps 
going  down  the  walk.  All  my  looking  and 
asking  and  wondering  and  guessing  come  to 
nothing.  All  I  ever  knew  about  him  you 
know  yourself  now. 

Dr.  Little,  that  told  you  to  ask  me  about 
it,  hasn't  been  here  long.  He's  dreadful  in- 
terested in  folks'  minds  and  heads — the  in- 
side of  'em — and  what  they  believe,  and  why 
they  believe  it,  and  all  that.  They've  got 
some  name  for  that  sort,  but  I  disremember 
it ;  but  'tany  rate,  he's  one.  He's  made  me 
tell  him  that  story  twenty  times  if  he  has 
once,  and  he  goes  over  'n'  over  it  with  me. 
He  uses  pretty  big  words,  but  I've  got  so  I 
can  follow  him  after  a  fashion.  He'll  ask 
me  what  I  really  think  about  it  myself. 
Well,  I  tell  him  I  don't  know ;  sometimes  I 
think  one  thing,  and  sometimes  another,  and 
then  again  I  don't  think  anything  at  all. 
Then  he  asks  me  if  I  ever  thought  that 
maybe  this  man  was  my  little  brother  Na- 
than come  back  in  this  form,  and  carrying 
out  his  idee  of  helping  folks.  Yes,  I  had 
thought  of  it,  and  the  doctor  knew  I  had, 
and  more'n  a  little,  too.  But  it  don't  seem  a 
187 


A    TRANSIENT 

satisfyin'  sort  of  the'ry.  Seems  's  if  folks,  if 
they're  let  to  come  back  at  all,  would  come 
lookin'  kind  of  different  from  us  poor  folks 
that's  never  had  their  opportunities ;  they'd 
be  more  like  angels  or  heavenly  bein's,  ap- 
pears to  me.  But  this  man  was  just  a  real 
Bentley-lookin'  kind  of  man,  plain  and  home- 
ly, and  dreadful  bashful.  Then  if  'twas  Na- 
than, why,  he'd  growed  up.  I  wonder  if  they 
do  grow  up  in  that  place.  This  man  seemed 
just  about  as  old  as  Nathan  would  have  been 
if  he'd  lived.  And  he'd  got  the  same  idees 
as  Nathan  about  helping  folks  and  getting 
'em  out  of  trouble.  And  it  was  just  me,  his 
own  sister,  he  helped.  But  then  it  don't 
stand  to  reason  that  a  soul  would  come  back 
to  do  such  common  kind  of  helping  jobs  as 
making  a  baby  look  pleasant  to  have  its 
pictur*  took,  or  fetching  peppermint,  or  driv- 
ing cows  out  of  the  corn,  and  all  that.  To 
be  sure,  it  might  come  down  to  sing  a  favor- 
ite hymn  to  a  dying  woman,  or  to  save  a 
little  child's  life,  but — no,  I  can't  tell  what  I 
do  think,  and  so  I  always  tell  Dr.  Little. 

'*  But,"  he  says,  in  his  solemn,  book- word 
kind  o'  way  that    I've  got  by  heart  now — 
1 88 


A    TRANSIENT 

"but,  Mrs.  Harris,  do  you  consider  this  vis- 
itant a  supernat'ral  being  ?  Do  you  call  it  a 
spirit  or  ghost  ?" 

And  I  always  answer,  "  No,  Dr.  Little,  I 
don't  dast  to  say  I  hold  that." 

"Well  then,  my  dear  Mrs.  Harris,"  he  says, 
again,  "  what  do  you  call  this  apparition  ?" 

And  I  always  answer,  "  Why,  I  just  call  him 
a  transient." 


AUNT    LIEFY 


AUNT    LIEFY 


I  don't  know  how  it  come  about  exactly  ; 
mebbe  'twas  because  I  never  rec'lected  any 
folks  of  my  own.  Or  again,  p'r'aps  'twas 
owin'  to  the  people  where  I  lived  not  bein' 
of  the  sociable  sort.  Or  mebbe,  likely  's  not, 
'twas  all  the  fault  of  my  own  queer,  cross- 
grained,  hard-to-get-along-with  natur'.  But 
tennerate,  there  'twas — a  fact  well  known  to 
me  and  other  folks,  that  I  was  the  lonesomest 
creatur*  that  ever  lived.  I  hadn't  a  real 
friend  on  the  airth  ;  more'n  that,  I  hadn't 
scursely  any  acquaintances.  Folks  in  the 
village  and  town  knew  who  I  was,  most  of 
'em,  and  I  knew  their  names  and  some  of 
their  faces  ;  but  that  was  about  all. 

You  asked  me  for  just  one  partic'lar  part 
of  my  story,  and  I'm  goin'  to  give  it  to  you. 
As  for  the  rest,  why,  there's  no  call  for  me  to 

N  193 


AUNT    LIE FY 

go  into  that  now,  and  I  ain't  a-goin'  to.  How 
I  come  to  be  there  in  Hilton,  without  any  one 
belongin'  to  me,  or  a  soul  in  the  whole  world 
to  set  by  me,  or  me  to  set  by,  why,  all  that's 
another  story,  so  we'll  let  it  alone  now.  And 
I'll  begin  just  here,  when  I  was  a  grown-up 
woman,  hard  featur'd  and  harder  natur'd,  not 
liked  by  anybody,  and  not  havin',  myself,  a 
mite  of  int'rest  in  any  one  on  this  airth  or 
outside  of  it.  Never  mind  what  I  done  for  a 
livin' ;  I  got  along.  I  had  enough  to  eat  and 
drink,  and  clo'es  to  wear ;  and  I  wasn't  be- 
holden to  anybody.  I  lived  by  myself  in  that 
same  little  red  house  just  out  of  the  village 
where  you  fust  see  me — the  lonesomest  creat- 
ur',  as  I  said  afore,  that  God  ever  made.  My 
whole  name,  you  know,  is  Relief  Staples  ;  but 
'twas  years  and  years  since  I'd  heard  the  fust 
part.  I  was  "Miss  Staples"  to  the  whole 
town ;  and  yet  'twasn't  the  kind  of  place 
where  they  give  folks  sech  names  gen'rally. 
Other  single  women  of  my  age — old  maids  I 
suppose  you'd  call  'em — was  Ann  Nichols,  or 
Lizzy  Mount,  or  Hopey  Palmer ;  and  the 
married  ones  was  Aunt  this  or  Aunty  that 
or  Mother  somebody.  But  I  was  allers  "  Miss 
194 


AUNT    LIEFY 

Staples  "  to  man,  woman,  and  child,  speakin' 
about  me,  or  to  me,  no  matter  which.  And, 
queer  enough,  I  never  thought  of  myself  by 
any  other  name.  I'd  most  forgot  I  was  Re- 
lief at  all ;  for  I  even  signed  my  name — to  a 
bill  or  paper,  I  never  writ  a  letter — R.  Staples. 
I  don't  seem  to  remember  much  about  when 
I  was  a  girl.  There  was  reasons  that  haven't 
got  anything  to  do  with  this  story  why  I  was 
diff'ent  from  the  other  children.  Strangers 
that  come  along  and  die  right  in  the  public 
roads,  and  leave  young  ones  too  little  to  know 
their  own  names  or  where  they  come  from, 
can't  expect  their  children  to  be  fav'rites  in 
the  c'mmunity,  especially  if  they're  put  in 
among  the  town-poor  at  fust.  I  know  I  got 
some  schoolin'  at  the  little  deestrict  school 
on  the  north  road  ;  but  I  don't  rec'lect  much 
about  the  other  children  playin'  with  me,  or 
callin'  me  by  my  fust  name,  as  they  done  one 
'nother  in  the  games,  or  in  spellin'  and  read- 
in'.  I  don't  b'lieve  I  liked  'em  much,  or  them 
me  ;  for  after  I  growed  up  I  allers  had  a  dis- 
like to  young  ones,  and  they  returned  it  every 
speck.  Fact  is,  I  can't  remember  likin'  any- 
thing much  in  them  days.  I  done  my  work 
195 


AUNT    LIEFY 

without  takin'  much  notice  of  it ;  I  eat  my 
meals,  sometimes  one  place,  sometimes  anoth- 
er, settin'  or  standin',  or  workin'  about,  as  I 
felt  like  it.  I  went  to  bed  and  got  up  ;  that 
was  my  life.  All  my  neighbors  had  posy  gar- 
dens, and  most  of  'em  had  flowers  in  the  house 
too ;  but  I  never  thought  of  sech  a  thing. 
What  was  the  use  of  it  ?  I  went  to  meetin' 
sometimes  ;  because — well,  I  don't  seem  to 
rec'lect  why  I  did  go,  but  I  did.  But  it  didn't 
int'rest  me,  and  I  didn't  take  no  great  notice 
of  what  went  on.  That  it  meant  much  of 
anything  to  me,  myself,  never  come  into  my 
head  in  those  days. 

I'm  leavin'  out,  as  I  said  afore,  everything 
that  hasn't  really  got  to  do  with  my  story. 
So  I  needn't  stop  to  tell  you  how  it  come 
about  that  I  was  trav'lin'  one  day — the  day 
my  story  really  begins — on  a  kind  of  business 
errand,  over  the  Middle  Railroad,  nor  how  I 
come  to  get  off  at  the  wrong  station  ;  but 
there  I  was.  I  meant  to  go  to  Wellsville.  I'd 
been  there  afore  and  knew  how  it  looked  ; 
and  the  train  hadn't  hardly  started  after 
leavin'  me  before  I  see  I  was  wrong.  There 
wasn't  any  real  depot,  only  a  kind  of  platform 
196 


AUNT    LIEFY 

to  wait  on,  and  there  wasn't  a  soul  in  sight. 
I  looked  about  a  little,  and  then  I  begun  to 
walk  along  the  road,  not  carin'  much  what  I 
did.  My  business  wasn't  pressin',  'twas  the 
middle  of  the  day  and  lots  of  daylight  ahead, 
so  I  jest  walked  slowly  along.  The  road  was 
an  uphill  one,  and  no  houses  along  it  at  fust. 
I  rec'lect  that,  though  I  didn't  notice  much 
besides  ;  for  up  to  that  day,  you  know,  I  never 
did  notice  things.  But  that  was  the  last  of 
that  way  of  livin',  as  you'll  see  pretty  soon. 

It  was  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  early  in  Octo- 
ber, and,  as  I  could  tell  from  what  come  arter- 
wards,  the  trees  all  along  the  way  was  red  and 
yeller  and  bright-lookin',  and  I  was  steppin' 
on  leaves  colored  the  same  way  ;  but  I  didn't 
seem  to  see  'em.  I  don't  know  how  long  or 
how  fur  I  walked,-  or  what  I  was  thinkin' 
about.  Somehow  it  don't  seem  as  if  I  ever 
was  thinkin'  much  about  anything  those 
times.  Mebbe  my  mind  run  a  little  on  that 
piece  of  business  I  was  goin'  to  attend  to,  or 
some  work  I'd  promised  to  do,  I  don't  re- 
member. 

The  fust  thing  that  stands  out,  as  I  look 
back  now,  was  hearin'  a  man  speakin'.  He 
197 


AUNT    LIEFY 

was  in  a  buggy ;  but  I  hadn't  noticed  the 
sound  of  wheels,  and  he  was  close  up  to  me, 
comin'  down  the  road  facin'  me,  as  if  he  was 
on  the  way  to  the  station  I'd  come  from,  'fore 
I  see  him.  He  drawed  up  right  alongside  of 
me.  He  was  an  oldish  man,  with  a  pleasant- 
lookin*  kind  of  face,  only  a  mite  solemn  and 
sorry  like,  and  he  says,  "  I'm  so  glad  you've 
got  here.  They've  waited,  thinkin'  you  might 
be  on  this  train.  I'm  goin'  on  to  tell  the  min- 
ister, or  I'd  give  you  a  lift ;  but  some  one '11 
meet  you."  And  then,  'fore  I'd  had  time  to 
say  anything,  he  says,  in  a  low  sort  of  voice, 
"I'm  dreadful  sorry  for  you  ;  we  all  be."  And 
then  he  started  his  horse  and  rode  away.  It 
seems  odd  now  that  I  didn't  wonder  more 
about  what  he  meant,  or  ask  him  somethin', 
or  call  after  him  that  I  guessed  he'd  made  a 
mistake.  But,  if  you'll  believe  me,  all  I  could 
think  of  in  that  fust  minute  was  that  some- 
body was  waitin'  for  me  and  expectin'  me  ; 
somebody  was  glad  I'd  come  ;  and,  'bove  and 
over  all,  somebody  was  dreadful  sorry  for 
me.  Not  one  of  them  things,  's  fur  's  I  know, 
had  ever  happened  to  me  afore,  and  though  I 
made  sure  'twas  all  a  mistake,  somehow  jest 
198 


AUNT    LIEFY 

for  a  minute  I  had  the  comfortablest  feelin' 
I'd  ever  had  in  my  life.  Comfortable  in  my 
mind,  I  mean  ;  but  queer  enough,  it  made  me 
feel  weak  in  my  body  and  with  a  kind  of 
choked -up,  swelly  throat.  I  walked  along, 
tryin'  to  think,  when  I  see  a  carryall  comin' 
down  the  road  towards  me,  with  a  boy 
drivin'. 

"  Oh,  there  you  be  !"  he  says,  as  he  stopped 
the  old  horse.  "  Get  right  in.  They  put  off 
the  funeral,  you  see,  thinkin'  you  might  get 
here  on  this  noon-train." 

I  stood  still  in  the  road,  lookin' at  him  ;  but 
he  says, "  Hurry  !  Pa  told  me  to  drive  quick  " ; 
and  I  got  in.  I  don't  know  what  made  me 
do  it.  I  go  over  and  over  that  day  some- 
times in  my  mind,  and  try  to  think  how  'twas 
I  fell  in  with  everything  so,  without  explainin' 
or  askin'  questions.  The  only  way  I  can 
make  it  out  reas'nable  is,  that  I  was  so  took 
up  with  this  bein'  expected  and  took  notice 
of  and  made  much  on,  that  I  jest  let  myself 
have  the  comfort  of  it  all,  without  sayin'  or 
doin'  a  thing  that  might  'a'  stopped  it.  The 
boy  didn't  say  much  ;  he  driv  fast,  shakin' 
the  reins  and  cluckin'  to  the  horse.  The  road 
199 


AUNT    LIEFY 

was  pretty  rough,  and  the  wagon  was  shackly 
and  shook  about  and  rattled,  and  we  couldn't 
'a'  held  much  talk  even  if  we'd  had  a  mind 
to.  We  met  some  folks,  and  they  all  looked 
at  me  in  the  same  way,  kind  of  int'rested  and 
friendly,  but  allers  sorry,  real  sorry  —  that 
was  what  struck  me  most. 

"  They've  mistook  me  for  somebody  else," 
I  says  to  myself ;  "  but  I  can't  help  likin'  it, 
and  I  won't  tell  'em  jest  for  a  spell.  It  feels 
so  good  to  be  looked  at  that  way.  I'll  wait 
a  minute  'fore  I  tell  'em."  Mebbe  I  didn't 
put  it  into  jest  them  words,  but  I  was  think- 
in'  somethin'  most  like  that,  I  know. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  boy  whoaed  his  horse 
and  stopped.  I  see  a  little  gal  in  a  red  frock 
runnin'  'crost  the  road  and  holdin'  up  some- 
thin'.  She  was  all  out  of  breath  and  her  lit- 
tle face  red,  she'd  run  so  ;  and  she  didn't  say 
anythin',  on'y  reached  up  and  put  somethin' 
in  my  lap  and  run  off.  The  boy  whipped  up, 
and  we  went  on.  I  looked  down  into  my  lap 
and  see  some  yeller  posies. 

"What  be  they?"  I  says,  more  to  my  own 
self  than  anything.     But  the  boy,  he  says,  in 
that  kind  of  way  boys  does  when  they're  sorry 
200 


AUNT    LIEFY 

and  most  ashamed  of  bein',  "Gold'nrod,  ye 
know,  that  she  set  so  much  by." 

Now  that  bloom  grows  all  along  the  roads 
through  our  part  of  the  country  ;  but  some- 
how I  hadn't  ever  noticed  it  afore,  and  I  nev- 
er 'd  heerd  its  name — not  to  rec'lect  it.  And 
whoever  did  he  mean  by  "  she  "  ?  But  that 
give  me  a  little  more  to  hold  on  by.  All  this 
bein'  sorry  for  me,  and  takin'  care  and  all, 
had  somethin'  to  do  with  this  somebody  he 
spoke  of  as  "  she."  I  begun  to  feel  dreadful 
queer  and  choky,  and  's  if  I  must  know  right 
straight  off  all  about  her,  and  what  had  hap- 
pened. It's  a  mistake,  I  says  to  myself,  but 
oh,  I  jest  can't  let  on  that  'tis  yet,  and  me 
to  go  back  to  bein'  no  account  to  anybody, 
and  never  wanted  or  expected  anywheres 
again. 

We  kep'  meetin'  folks  ;  but  they  all  turned 
's  quick  as  they  see  us,  and  went  back  the 
way  we  was  goin'.  And  I  could  hear  teams 
comin'  along  behind  us  too. 

Bime-by  I  see  a  little  white  house  ahead  and 
a  good  many  men  folks  standin'  round  it. 
And  the  boy  drawed  up  in  front  of  that  house. 
Two  or  three  men  came  out  to  the  carriage, 

20I 


AUNT    LIEFY 

plain,  f  armer-lookin'  men,  with  kind  of  tanned, 
weather-beat  faces,  but  all  with  the  same  sort 
of  sorry  look,  and  I  see  they  was  goin'  to  help 
me  out.  I'd  jest  been  a  goin'  to  tell  'em  who 
I  was  and  how  'twas  all  a  mistake  ;  but  for 
the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  then. 

They'll  find  me  out  in  a  minute,  I  says  to 
myself ;  but  I  can't  tell  'em  now.  For  you 
see,  in  all  my  born  days  I  hadn't  ever  afore 
been  helped  out  of  anything,  and  I  wanted 
to  see  how  'twould  seem.  They  done  it  real 
gentle  ;  and  somehow  they  led  me  into  the 
gate.  All  the  men  in  the  front  yard,  they 
stood  back  each  side  of  the  path  while  I  walk- 
ed up  to  the  door.  I  hadn't  more'n  stepped 
over  the  sill  into  the  entry,  where  'twas  sort 
of  dark,  when  I  felt  somethin'  queer,  warm, 
and  soft,  and  wrappy  ;  and  I  see  I  was  in 
somebody's  arms.  'Twas  an  old  woman  with 
white  hair,  and  a  soft,  wrinkled  face,  and  sech 
a  mothery  look  all  over  her — I  wonder  how 
my  mother  looked  ;  and  she  put  her  face  up 
again'  mine,  and  I  felt  'twas  all  wet.  I  don't 
believe  I'd  ever,  afore  that,  felt  anybody's 
tears,  not  even  my  own,  sence  I  was  a  baby. 

She'll  say  somethin'  now,  I  thinks  to  my- 

202 


AUNT    LIEFY 

self,  that'll  show  me  where  the  mistake  is ; 
and  then  'twill  all  come  out,  and  I'll  jest  go 
back.  But  she  didn't  say  but  one  thing,  after 
all,  and  that  didn't  help.  "  Oh,  my  dear,  my 
dear  !"  she  says.     That  was  all. 

You  can't  blame  me  for  not  tellin'  then, 
not  jest  then,  can  you?  S'pose  you  hadn't 
ever  in  all  your  hull  life  been  called  "my 
dear";  and  you  was  all  kind  of  shakin'  and 
chokin'  and  cryey,  and  glad  and  sorry  to  once 
with  hearin'  it,  could  you  go  and  spile  it  right 
straight  off  by  ownin'  up  you  hadn't  no  claim 
to  it?     Well,  I  couldn't,  anyway. 

She  took  me  into  a  little  bedroom  and  put 
me  in  a  chair.  She  said  there  was  plenty  of 
time  for  me  to  rest  a  spell ;  for  folks  had  got 
to  be  let  know  I  was  come,  and  that  the 
fun'ral  could  go  on.  She  untied  my  bunnet- 
strings  and  unpinned  my  shawl.  She  done 
a  lot  of  things  to  me  that  I  didn't  hardly 
know  what  was,  they  was  so  new  and  queer 
to  me,  not  bein'  used  to  'em,  you  know.  She 
talked  a  good  deal ;  but  I  didn't  take  much 
notice  of  the  words,  I  was  so  took  up  with 
her  softly  voice  and  the  things  she  was  doin' 
to  me.  But  I  know  she  kep'  sayin'  over  'n' 
203 


AUNT    LIEFY 

over,  "  If  you  could  only  'a'  got  here  afore 
she  went !     If  you  could  only  'a'  got  here  !" 

I  tried  to  say  somethin' ;  but  some  ways 
my  throat  was  all  dry,  and  'fore  I  could  get 
out  any  words,  she  says,  "  Oh,  I  know  you 
couldn't,  you  poor  dear  creatur',  and  she 
knew  it  too.  She  wanted  you  dreadful  bad," 
she  says,  the  tears  a  runnin'  down  her  pret- 
ty, old,  wrinkled  face  ;  "  but  she  knew  you 
couldn't  get  here,  and  most  the  very  last 
word  she  spoke  was  your  name,  my  dear." 

Well,  that  finished  me.  Up  to  that  time  I 
hadn't  cried  any  myself.  I  don't  b'lieve  I 
knew  how,  exactly,  never  havin'  done  it  sence 
I  was  a  baby.  But  now  I  found  the  water 
fallin'  out  o'  my  eyes  like  rain.  Mebbe  'twas 
because  I  knew  'twas  all  a  mistake  ;  mebbe 
again  owin'  to  my  half-believin'  'twas  real  and 
true  after  all,  and  somebody  was  layin'  dead 
that  had  set  by  me  so  that  she'd  wanted  me 
dreadful,  and  said  over  my  name  with  her 
last  breath  most.  Anyway  I  cried  and  cried 
and  cried.  I'd  'a'  said  afore  that,  if  anybody  'd 
asked  me,  that  it  must  hurt  to  cry,  that  I 
shouldn't  like  it ;  but — I  did.  It  seemed  to 
help  me,  and  rest  me,  and  comfort  me,  to 
204 


AUNT    LIEFY 

make  me  diff'ent  from  what  I'd  ever  been 
afore  in  all  my  life — more  like  other  folks, 
and  jest  a  little  mite  like  the  white-haired 
old  woman  and  the  people  outside  with  that 
sorry  look  on  their  featur's. 

I  don't  know  how  long  'twas,  mebbe  only  a 
few  minutes,  mebbe  more,  but  arter  a  spell, 
anyway,  we  went  out  o'  that  little  bedroom 
and  into  the  settin'-room.  It  was  shet  up 
and  dark  like,  and  I  couldn't  see  much  at  fust. 
They  put  me  into  a  seat,  and  pretty  soon  I 
found  there  was  lots  of  folks  round  me. 
There  was  chairs  in  rows,  and  people  in  'em  ; 
and  there  was  a  somethin',  black  and  strange, 
covered  and  shet  up  and  still,  and  I  knew, 
without  bein'  told,  that  she  they'd  said  had 
wanted  me,  and  set  by  me,  and  spoke  about 
me  up  to  the  very  last,  was  layin'  there.  My 
old  woman  was  settin'  close  by  me,  and  when 
she  see  my  eyes  fixed  on  that,  she  says  in  a 
whisper,  "  I  wish  you  could  'a'  seen  her,  she 
was  so  peaceful  and  pleasant  -  lookin'  and 
nat'ral.  But  you  know  how  'twas,  and  that  we 
couldn't  wait." 

So  I  wasn't  goin'  to  see  her  even  this  way  ! 
I  shouldn't  ever  know  how  she  looked,  livin* 
205 


AUNT    LIEFY 

or  dead.  Well,  I  wasn't  exactly  sorry.  I 
most  dreaded  the  idee  of  seein'  her,  for  fear 
somehow  I  might  be  disapp'inted.  For  I'd 
got  a'ready  a  notion  of  my  own  about  her, 
from  what  the  dear  old  woman  told  me,  and 
things  I  heerd  whispered  round  as  we  set 
waitin'. 

Then  somebody  says,  "  Here's  the  minister," 
and  an  old  man  come  up  to  me.  I  looked  up 
at  him  ;  I  hadn't  ever  seen  jest  sech  a  face 
afore,  or  if  I  had,  it  hadn't  made  much  impres- 
sion on  me.  'Twasn't  exactly  sorry,  but  's  if 
it  had  been  over  'n  over  again,  and  knew  all 
about  it ;  and  there  was  a  look  as  if  he  was 
hopin'  somethin'  real  hard,  and  lottin'  on 
gettin'  it  too — a  kind  of  shinin'  in  his  eyes 
and  a  still  sort  of  look  jest  round  his  mouth. 
He  took  hold  of  my  hand,  and  he  said  some- 
thin'.  It  don't  seem  as  if  I  heerd  the  words, 
each  one  on  'em  ;  but  I  gathered  lots  o'  mean- 
in'  out  of  it  somehow,  and  I  knew  that  he  was 
dreadful  sorry  for  me,  but  glad  enough  for 
her,  though  I  couldn't  hardly  see  why  jest 
then,  and  I  see  too  that  he  knew  I  was  goin' 
to  be  glad  too,  some  day. 

Well,  the  fun'ral  begun  and  went  on.  I  dis- 
206 


AUNT    LIEFY 

remember  whether  or  no  I'd  ever  been  to  a 
fun'ral  afore ;  but  I'd  seen  'em  go  by,  of  course, 
and  thought  I  knew  all  about  'em.  But  this 
wasn't  a  bit  like  what  I'd  conceited.  I  can't 
tell  you  jest  how  'twas  diff'ent ;  mebbe  one 
thing  was  I  was  diff'ent,  even  in  that  short 
spell.  Things  the  minister  read  or  spoke, 
though  I'd  heerd  some  of  'em  afore  in  meet- 
in'  and  elsewheres,  got  to  meanin'  somethin' 
now  when  I  was  listenin'  so  close  to  find 
out  somethin'  about  her  that  laid  there,  and 
whether  there  was  any  chance  of  my  seein' 
her  some  day.  And  when  he  prayed — well, 
I'd  seen  folks  pray,  time  and  again,  but  didn't 
think  of  its  meanin'  much  of  anythin' ;  and 
as  for  prayin'  myself,  I  didn't  s'pose  I  knew 
how.  P'r'aps  I  didn't,  and  wa'n't  prayin'  then ; 
but  I  was  secondin'  ev'ry  single  thing  the  old 
minister  said,  and  hopin'  with  all  my  heart 
and  mind  and  body  they'd  come  true.  Ain't 
that  a  kind  of  prayin'  ?  And  somebody  else 
said  somethin' ;  and  they  sung  things  soft- 
ly, and  prayed  again.  And  in  ev'ry  single 
thing  I  could  see  they  thought  she  that  laid 
there  b'longed  to  me  more'n  to  anybody  else 
and  that  I  was  the  sorriest  of  any  one  there. 
207 


AUNT    LIEFY 

They  prayed  for  me  more'n  all  the  rest; 
they  talked  about  me,  not  by  name,  but  "our 
sister,"  they  says,  "her  that's  so  sorely  afflict- 
ed," "  she  that  was  so  closely  bound  up  with 
her  that's  gone,"  and  things  like  that.  Oh, 
I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  what  'twas  to  me  to 
be,  for  the  fust  time  in  all  my  days,  right  in 
the  middle  of  things,  'stead  of  alone  outside  ; 
with  folks  all  lovin'  me  and  bein'  sorry  for 
me  and  askin'  for  things  to  happen  to  me.  I 
couldn't,  I  jest  couldn't,  put  a  stop  to  it  all 
by  ownin'  up  'twas  a  mistake  somehow. 

And  then  we  went  to  the  little  buryin'- 
ground.  'Twas  close  by,  and  folks  walked ; 
and  I  was  ahead  of  all,  and  closest  to  her.  I 
can  see  it  all  so  plain,  for  I  b'lieve  'twas  the 
fust  out-o'-doors  thing  I'd  ever  really  looked 
at — in  a  takin'-notice  way,  I  mean.  The  trees 
— there  was  a  lot  of  'em  round — was  all  bright 
and  gay-lookin'  with  their  red  and  yeller  and 
browny  leaves,  and  the  sky  was  all  blue  with 
little  white  clouds  strimmered  over  it.  There 
was  ever  so  manv  posies  growin'  in  the  paths, 
gold'nrod  —  I'd  learnt  that  name  a'ready — 
and  purple  blooms  mixed  in  with  'em,  and 
the  air  was  full  of  a  minty,  spicy  sort  o'  smell 
208 


AUNT    LIEFY 

from  yarbs  in  the  grass.  And  up  in  a  tree, 
jest  over  the  place  they'd  dug  her  grave,  set 
a  little  bird  a-singin'  's  loud  and  sweet  's  he 
could  sing. 

Then  the  minister  said  some  words — sin- 
g'lar,  wonderful  sort  o'  words  they  'peared 
to  me  then,  in  fact  they  do  now — and  they 
laid  her  down  there.  And  the  sun  was  a-shin- 
in';  there  was  a  bumble-bee  buzzin'  about 
the  posies,  and  a  butterfly  lightin'  on  'em. 
And  up  in  the  maple,  'mongst  the  red  leaves, 
that  little  bird  was  singin'  with  all  his  might 
and  main.  There  was  some  tears,  o'  course ; 
but  folks  kep'  smilin'  through  'em  till  they 
was  more  like  rainbows. 

Why,  thinks  I  to  myself,  'tain't  like  a  f un'ral 
one  bit ;  it's  more  like  plantin'  a  flower. 

And  then  they  all  come  round  me,  jest  me  ; 
the  women,  the  men,  the  children,  and  ev'ry 
one  had  somethin'  to  say  about  her  that  was 
gone,  and  what  she'd  been  to  'em  all,  what 
she  was  to  me  and  me  to  her.  There  was  an 
old  blind  man  she'd  took  care  of  and  read  to, 
and  some  little  orphan  children  she'd  moth- 
ered and  done  for ;  and  there  was  friends 
she'd  been  friend  to,  and  meetin'-folks  she'd 
o  209 


AUNT    LIEFY 

worked  with  in  doin'  good,  and — all  of  a  sud- 
den it  all  come  over  me  what  she  must  'a'  been 
and  how  I'd  heerd  of  her  too  late  ;  and  then 
I  thought  o'  my  lonesome,  dried-up,  good-for- 
nothin'  life  all  ahind  me,  and  how  diff'ent 
'twould  'a'  been  if  she'd  really  b'longed  to 
me,  as  these  folks  all  thought  she  done,  and 
seemed  's  if  I  couldn't  bear  it.  Sech  a  sorrer 
and  longin'  and  mournin'  and  grief  come 
rollin'  over  me,  like  waves  o'  the  sea,  and  I 
see  I'd  never  had  any  real  trouble  or  grief  or 
loss  afore  in  my  life.  Oh,  what  was  it  for  ? 
What  did  it  mean  ?  How  was  I  goin'  to  bear 
it,  anyhow  ? 

They  see  I  was  givin'  way,  and  one  after 
'nother  begun  to  tell  me  things  she'd  said 
about  me,  word  she'd  sent  to  me.  "  She  said 
she'd  be  watchin'  for  you  till  you  come,"  says 
one,  most  in  a  whisper.  "  She  told  me,"  says 
another,  "to  tell  you  not  to  feel  bad  you 
couldn't  get  here  to  take  care  of  her,  '  For,' 
says  she,  'if  you'll  on'y  take  care  o'  some- 
body else  that's  sick  or  lonesome  'twill  be  jest 
the  same  's  doin'  it  for  me.' "  And  a  little 
gal,  with  yeller  curls  and  sech  a  soft  face, 
reached  up,  and  says,  in  the  littlest  whisper, 


AUNT    LIEFY 

"  She  told  me  to  give  you  this,"  And  she 
kissed  me.     I  never  'd  been  kissed  afore. 

And  then  the  old  minister,  he  kind  of 
drawed  me  to  one  side  and  he  says,  "  She 
asked  me  over  and  over,  afore  she  died,  to 
tell  you  this,  that  she  forgive  you  everything 
if  there  was  anythin'  to  forgive,  and  that  you 
mustn't  mourn  and  fret  thinkin*  mebbe  you 
was  one  cause  of  her  dyin' ;  for  even  if  you 
was,  she  was  glad,  and  more'n  glad,  to  lay 
down  her  life  for  you." 

I  can't  hardly  rec'lect  how  I  got  away  from 
'em  all,  and  from  that  grave  and  the  little 
buryin'-ground,  and  found  my  way  back  to 
the  station.  I  on'y  know  I  didn't  tell  'em 
't  all  'twas  a  mistake,  but  come  away  with- 
out ownin'  up  anythin'.  I  took  the  cars  back 
to  Hilton.  I  see  so  many  things  out  of  the 
winder  I  hadn't  took  notice  of  that  mornin'. 
There  was  gold'nrod  all  'longside  the  way — 
her  fav'rite  flower  ;  with  the  sun  a-shinin'  on 
it  and  the  cars  goin'  by  so  quick  it  made  the 
roads  look  like  the  golden  streets  the  minis- 
ter 'd  talked  about.  And  I  see  little  buryin'- 
grounds  with  green  graves  and  white  stones 
that  made  me  think  of  where  she  was  layin'. 


AUNT    LIEFY 

And  when  we  stopped,  sometimes  I'd  hear  a 
bird  like  that  one  up  in  the  maple  -  tree. 
There  was  a  little  gal  in  the  car  with  yeller 
curls,  like  the  one  that  kissed  me,  and  I  found 
myself  a-smilin'  at  her,  and  she  smiled  back 
to  me. 

And  when  I  got  out  at  my  station  and  was 
walkin'  up  the  village  street  to  the  red  house, 
things  looked  diff'ent  from  what  they  ever 
done  afore.  I  see  I  was  walkin'  on  red  and 
yeller  leaves  that  looked  pretty  and  made  a 
rustlin'  sort  of  noise  as  I  stepped  on  'em, 
jest  's  they  done  's  I  stood  in  the  little  bury- 
in' -ground  where  we  laid  her.  And  there 
was  little  white  houses  along  the  street,  some- 
thin'  like  the  one  where  I'd  been,  and  where 
I  s'pose  she'd  lived ;  and  I  begun  to  wonder 
if  there  was  anybody  resemblin'  her  livin'  in 
these.  I  never  'd  wondered  much  about  folks 
afore,  didn't  take  any  int'rest  in  'em. 

And  jest  'fore  I  got  to  my  house  I  see  a 
woman  comin'.  She  had  a  black  dress  on, 
and  's  I  looked  at  her  I  rec'lected  she  was  a 
neighbor  o'  mine,  and  that  I'd  heerd  she'd 
lost  her  on'y  child,  a  little  boy,  a  spell  back. 
All  of  a  sudden  I  'peared  to  know  what  that 


AUNT    LIEFY 

meant,  and  see  the  coffin,  and  him  a-layin*  in 
it,  and  the  folks  all  together,  and  heerd  the 
minister's  voice  sayin'  them  wonderful  words; 
and  'fore  I  knew  what  I  was  doin'  I  held  out 
my  hand  to  her  and  I  heerd  my  own  voice 
a-sayin*,  "  I'm  dreadful  sorry  for  you." 

She  looked  into  my  face  's  if  she  hadn't 
ever  see  it  afore — I  s'pose  it  looked  diff'ent 
somehow,  with  my  eyes  all  swelly  and  red — 
and  she  says,  with  the  tears  a-comin  fast, 
"  Thank  ye,  thank  ye  !  I  see  you've  met  with 
a  loss  yourself,  Miss  Staples,  and  that  makes 
you  feel  for  me." 

I  wa'n't  tellin'  a  lie,  was  I,  when  I  says,  "  I 
have,  I  have,  and  I  do  feel  for  you  ?"  For  I 
had  lost  all  I  ever  had  in  my  hull  life,  and 
jest 's  quick  's  I  knew  I  had  it,  too. 

Now,  'tisn't  scurcely  the  thing  for  me  to 
tell  the  rest ;  I  don't  hardly  know  how  to  say 
it.  You  asked  me  to  tell  you  how  'twas  I 
changed  about  so,  as  folks  told  you  I  done — 
from  a  lonesome,  unfeelin',  unreligious  wom- 
an, not  havin'  a  mite  of  int'rest  in  anybody, 
nor  them  havin'  any  in  me,  to  somethin'  dif- 
f'ent. And  I've  told  you  all  I  know  about 
what  fetched  about  the  change. 
213 


AUNT    LIEFY 

I  never  knew  anythin'  more  about  that 
fun'ral,  nor  the  one  we  buried  that  day,  nor 
what  I  was  to  her  nor  her  to  me.  I  was 
afraid  to  find  out,  so  I  never  asked  any  ques- 
tions, nor  went  back  to  that  station,  nor 
looked  in  the  papers  to  see  who  was  dead 
there.  As  long  's  I  didn't  really  know  the 
partic'lars,  nor  who  they  took  me  for,  and 
why  they  took  me  for  her,  why,  there  wasn't 
any  harm,  was  there,  in  my  feelin'  she  was 
mine  now,  let  alone  what  she'd  been  afore  ; 
that  that  was  my  grave  to  think  on  and 
mourn  over,  and,  what's  more,  hope  about  ? 
Tennerate,  I  done  it  ;  and  small  credit  to  me 
that  it  fetched  me  some  good,  and  made  me 
alter  my  old,  hateful  ways.  For  it  stands  to 
reas'n  that  havin'  a  sorrer  myself — and  'twas 
one,  though  mebbe  you  can't  see  how — made 
me  notice  other  folks's  troubles  and  feel  for 
'em  and  try  to  help  'em,  as  I  was  helped. 

And  hearin'  what  she  liked  and  set  by, 
posies  and  sech,  made  me  begin  to  notice  and 
get  fond  on  'em  myself.  And  that's  how 
my  gardin  got  to  what  'twas  when  you  fust 
see  it,  and  my  winders  and  porch  so  chock 
full  of  growin'  things.  And  of  course  you  see 
214 


AUNT    LIEFY 

now  how  I  took  to  feedin'  them  birds  that 
you  was  so  struck  with,  comin'  round  the 
steps  and  pickin'  up  my  crumbs  and  seeds, 
lightin'  on  me,  and  all  that ;  that  was  owin', 
you  see,  to  that  little  bird  a-singin'  in  the  red 
maple  over  her  grave.  I  never  forgot  him,  the 
peart  little  fellow,  singin'  and  singin'  away 
with  all  his  might  and  main  's  if  he  knew 
somethin'  good  was  goin'  to  happen.  And 
them  queer  folks  you  used  to  watch  a-comin' 
in  my  gate  and  hangin'  round  there  —  old 
lame  Jesse  and  foolish  Nance  and  that  little 
rickety  Dan  with  the  hump  on  his  poor  little 
back — why,  I  had  them  come,  and  done  for 
'em,  on'y  jest  'cause  she  done  that  kind  of 
thing,  they  said.  'Twa'n't  nothin'  'riginal 
on  my  part,  that  wa'n't  —  jest  copyin'  her, 
you  see. 

That  was  why  I  took  to  nussin'  the  sick 
and  all  that ;  and  that's  how  they  come  to 
take  to  callin'  me  Aunt  Relief,  and  then  Aunt 
Liefy,  'stead  o'  Miss  Staples. 

The  other  part — 'tain't  for  me  to  say  a  word 
about  that ;  Some  One  else  done  it,  if  'tis  done. 
It's  reas'nable,  ain't  it,  that  I  should  take 
some  kind  of  int'rest  in  what  made  this  friend 

215 


AUNT    LIEFY 

of  mine  I  hadn't  ever  see  the  sort  of  person 
they  made  her  out,  and  that  I  should  study  up 
about  that,  and  about  those  sing'lar  words 
the  minister  used  at  the  fun'ral,  and  about 
the  place  where  she'd  gone  to,  and,  'bove  and 
over  all,  what  chance  there  was  of  my  gettin' 
to  see  her  after  a  spell.  And  findin*  out  con- 
cernin'  all  them  things,  why,  of  course  I  found 
out  more'n  I  was  lookin'  for.  You  see,  the 
one  thing  that  had  worked  on  me  most  that 
day  was  hearin'  she'd  forgive  me  things  ;  for 
I  hadn't  ever  been  forgive  anythin'  in  my 
hull  life — not  to  know  it,  I  mean.  And  some- 
how I  didn't  dwell  on  that  part  about  my 
havin'  done  anythin'  to  bring  about  her  death, 
as  much  's  I  did  on  what  she  said  about  bein' 
glad  and  more'n  glad  to  lay  down  her  life 
for  me.  That  was  the  one  thing  I  guess  I 
thought  of  most,  comin'  home  that  day  from 
her  buryin'  and  arterwards.  Any  one  that 
set  by  me  enough  to  be  glad  to  lay  their  life 
down  on  my  account,  it  seemed  too  sing'lar 
to  take  in,  and  's  if  it  couldn't  act'lly  be. 
Well,  it  don't  seem  a  mite  less  sing'lar  now  ; 
but  I've  found  it  could  act'lly  be  ! 

So  I'm  jest  a-goin'  on  all  the  time  now  as 
216 


AUNT    LIEFY 

if  I'd  had  folks.  It's  most  's  if  I'd  had,  you 
see.  I've  got  a  grave,  anyhow,  in  a  little, 
sweet,  minty,  spicy-smellin'  buryin'- ground 
full  o'  posies,  gold'nrod,  and  sech  ;  and  I've 
got  messages  some  one  left  for  me — word 
she  sent — and  I'm  follerin'  'em  and  doin'  'em 
's  well  's  I  can.  And  I've  been  once  in  my 
life  to  a  fun'ral  that  was  more  to  me  than  to 
any  one  else  there,  where  I  was  prayed  for  and 
comforted  and  pitied  and  set  by.  It's  most 
's  if  I'd  had  folks,  don't  you  think  so  ?  That's 
what  I  hold. 

And  I  don't  see  how  I  done  anybody  any 
harm  by  not  tellin'  'twas  all  a  mistake  and  I 
was  took  for  somebody  else.  If  I  was,  why,  I 
guess  the  right  one  got  along  a  spell  arter- 
wards  and  got  the  same  comfort  out  of  it  I 
did,  and  mebbe  more.     So  't  didn't  hurt  her. 

And  there's  one  thing  can't  be  took 
from  me.  There  was  somebody  lay  there 
that  day,  whether  she  was  anythin'  to  me 
afore  all  that  or  not ;  and  I  know  what  she'd 
been,  from  what  folks  said  about  her ;  and  I 
know  where  she's  gone,  from  what  she  was 
and  b'lieved  and  said.  So  there  ain't  no  man- 
ner o'  harm,  and  you  can't  make  me  think 
217 


AUNT    LIEFY 

there  is,  in  my  lookin'  forrard  to  seein'  her 
one  of  these  days,  and  pretty  soon  now.  And 
when  I  do  see  her,  why,  I  sha'n't  have  to  go 
into  a  longexplainin'  and  showin'  how  it  come 
about,  and  why  I  didn't  own  up  that  day  she 
was  buried.  She'll  see  it  in  a  minute,  if  she 
ain't  seen  it  a'ready  ;  and  that  if  I  ain't  that 
one  she'd  set  by  so  long  and  that  had  set  by 
her,  I'm  the  one  that's  jest  lived  for  her  ever 
sence,  and  tried  to  copy  her  and  act  like  her, 
and  love  the  ones  she  loved,  and  do  for  the 
ones  she  done  for,  and,  partic'lar,  that's  tried 
to  get  herself  ready  and  fit  to  be  let  in  to  see 
her  some  day. 

And  I  know  cert'in  sure  that  there's  Some 
One  else  up  there  that  '11  understand  all  about 
it  too,  without  my  tellin ;  and  He'll  know  what 
'twas  to  me  to  think  of  a  buryin'-spot  filled 
with  sweet  spices,  in  a  place  like  a  gardin  o' 
posies,  and  of  some  one  layin'  there  for  a  spell 
— some  one  that  had  set  by  me  so  much  that 
she'd  'a'  been  glad  and  more'n  glad  to  lay 
down  her  life  for  me. 


THE   END 


By  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 


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